My Favorite Color

After a long walk in the snow and slush (oh, the slush!), Duncan and I climb the thirty-seven steps to my door where I make him shake the snow off his coat. He doesn't always do it on command so sometimes I just grab his tail and wag it it side to side, which makes him dance and smile and turn in circles. I'm sure we look ridiculous but we find it fun and anything worth the fun is also worth the ridiculous.

After that we come inside where a nice warm towel is waiting for him. He plops down in the entryway while I slip it over his head and down his back. Duncan loves a good toweling-off which makes it quite difficult. He huffs and puffs and rolls over on his side, pushing his snout into the floor while he turns this way and that, stretches out long then curls up in a ball before standing up and letting me dry him off some more. I towel each of his feet, coaxing out the tight, round balls of snow that collect under his pads, leaving them scattered across the floor like the remnants of snowmen. Then I move down to his belly, which he really loves, leaning into me as I dry his chest, licking my cheeks when I come back up for his chin and the tip of his nose. And sometimes when I'm done I just leave the towel draped over his head so that he looks like Obi-Dunc-Kenobi.

Red is my favorite color. Especially when it's on my good, red dog.

Alone

"Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder

in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf." (Albert Schweitzer)

It snowed today, one of our frustrating but predictable April snows, big and fluffy. It will continue to snow, off and on, for the next three days, and then hopefully we'll be able to put winter behind us and get on with the business of Spring, my favorite season. Last year at this time the trees were in full bloom, pink and white, and the air was filled with sweet fragrance, but this year the trees are hardly budding.

This afternoon, after leaving work early in a futile attempt to beat the traffic, Duncan led me down The Run to play in The Glen. Halfway down, beneath the maple that rises up near the balcony which used to belong to my friend Brady until he moved two weeks ago, a single leaf had come to rest on the surface of the snow, somehow still golden and crisp, its edges sharp and as new-seeming as if it were October instead of April. Duncan galloped right past it but I paused and reflected on the long winter days and nights, the bitter wind of the past few days, and the strength of that lone leaf as it clung to the tree it had known as home for so long. Why it chose today to fall instead of holding on a little longer, until a new family unfurled around it and protected it from the elements I'll never know. Perhaps it wanted only to fly and spin, just once, among the thick flakes which drifted from above, to realize the wonder that had perplexed it in the long, lonely months it has been alone.

Water

I never used to like yellow but then the day after Ken brought Duncan home we went shopping for all the things we'd need for the new puppy and I spotted the big yellow crock that would eventually become his water bowl. I liked it because I imagined leaning down into it for a cool drink would be like leaning into the sun and lapping at its rays. The thing was bigger than him and he had to stand in it to drink so we switched it out for a smaller bowl until he'd grown into his paws and could drink without simultaneously taking a bath. And now, on hot summer days Duncan loves nothing more than for me to fill it with water and ice cubes that he can chase with his nose and tongue, and chomp when he grows tired of their swimming. And on those same days, when I am exhausted and too tired to move, I love watching him play and splash until his face is soaked, until his eyebrows drip, and a smile dances across his face.

A View from Bed

Every time I time I think I'm in charge of the house, Pip and Olive like to remind me who's really running the show. It's a puppet regime and the puppet has yet to figure out what went wrong or when he lost control.

Ken is such a heavy sleeper they don't even bother. They sense my weakness and so my day typically begins around 5:30 AM when they decide I need to get up and tend to their every whim. It doesn't usually work, as I bat them away for the next half hour or so––if I'm lucky––but around six they begin the yowling in earnest and proceed to bat their cold noses against my cheeks and then commence the tag-team staring until I get up.

Roo is the lucky one. They leave him alone in his kennel and let him sleep until a more polite hour. And once they're done with breakfast and I'm left to take care of myself they curl up next to Ken for a nice long, post-breakfast nap.

Middle

I'm in the middle of MaxDog, a wonderful book by my blogging friend Caryl Moll. Caryl writes of her Golden Retriever Max, who entered her life just prior to a very tumultuous time, filled with uncertainty, anxiety, grief, and depression. Max filled her days with confidence, exuberance, and the kind of special devotion only Goldens can provide and helped her overcome the challenges that interrupted a seemingly idyllic life in South Africa.

I first came to know Caryl two years ago when I stumbled upon her blog, Living Life to the Max. Almost instantly we connected in a way that only people who have shared similar circumstances can understand. Max was her rock during some very bleak days and as I learned more of her story, the more I understood her bond with Max and the tremendous impact he has had on her life.

Like, Max, Duncan entered my life at a difficult time. Just a few months prior to his unexpected arrival I'd lost my grandmother, who I'd been close to and with whose passing I was having an extremely difficult time coming to terms. Max was originally intended to be Caryl's husband's dog just as Duncan was meant to be Ken's. But life has a way of turning things around and soon Duncan and I formed a bond that transcended his relationship with Ken. Not too long after Max arrived Caryl's life was turned upside-down by a series of events beyond her control. And a mere six months after Duncan joined our family I was diagnosed with a debilitating anxiety disorder that changed my entire existence. Duncan was there for me in ways entirely unexpected, and through his guidance I began the long process of rebuilding my life, a task that continues to this day. Max did the exact same thing for Caryl, offering his unconditional love and acceptance, while encouraging her to reenter the world and resume her own life.

I identify with this book in many ways and am thankful I've had the opportunity to read it and grow closer to Caryl, or as close as two people on opposite sides of the planet can grow. Caryl was one of the amazing people who sent me a magic feather last year prior to my trip to New York. While I don't have an autographed copy of MaxDog, I keep the card she included with her feather as a bookmark. In it she wrote, "Remember, courage is not the absence of fear but that special person's ability to embrace it... Fly, Curt, fly!!!" I have cherished it, and the feather, since their arrival, and stop every time I open the book and thank The Universe for putting her into my life.

If you'd like your own copy of MaxDog, you can order it here. Or, if you own a Kindle and would like a digital copy, you can download it from Amazon here. Please be sure to visit her blog and tell her Duncan sent you.

Detail

I have always said that God is in the details and as such I have spent most of my walks with Duncan searching out the tiniest details of the world. I say most because there are times, like last night when it was freezing and it was time for bed and I didn't feel like standing in the snow, that I don't pay attention and simply focus on getting out and back in as quickly as possible. But the rest of our walks together are spent with my eyes seeking out the little-something-extras that make life extraordinary. Sometimes Duncan leads me to them but sometimes, when he wanders off to tend to business or to sniff the tall grass sprouting up beside a tree stump, I can pause and simply witness the world being the world. And when I have a chance to do that the most wondrous things allow themselves to be discovered.

Last summer was disastrous for the trees at the park. The irrigation system is old and poorly managed and several of the larger fields found themselves under water for most of the season. It was so bad our usual collection of late-night Ultimate players were nowhere to be found and so Dunc and I didn't get to enjoy their glowing discs spinning through the darkness or the coordinated calls of the kids running back and forth. Several of the trees got sick and withered. The leaves curled and browned by the end of June and a rank odor rose up from the bog that grew up along the edge of the bigger soccer field. The grounds crew were forced to cut eleven of them down, most several decades old, tall and wind-weathered, their bark shaped and mottled with character. A few were left standing as knee-high stumps and this morning, while the sun was still up and before the afternoon clouds set in, Duncan ventured among them, leaving his calling card as he passed. Someone had peeled the outer layer of bark off them, exposing the smooth inner bark, soft and lustrous. I spent several minutes running my fingers over them, watching the ants crawl among their cracks, listening to the crows in the elms craw at me impatiently. The traffic seemed to die down and for a long while the park was silent, which is the best way to experience it. No cars, no shouts from the skateboarders, no sirens or wind. Just perfect silence. The kind the trees loves. A detail that nourishes the spirit.

Place

Three days a week I go into the office where I tend to the things I'm paid to tend to and interact with people I actually enjoy interacting with. Until I got my present job three years ago, I'd drawn pretty clear lines about socializing with the people I worked with. Work is work and my life is my life and rarely did the two intersect. There were exceptions, of course, but for the most part I was a pretty private person at work. But the people I work with now are incredible and I enjoy spending time with them. I love my work and don't dread going there. I was ill-suited for my last job––I loathed it, in fact––and the sound of the alarm going off each morning was almost more than I could bear. But now when the alarm goes off I don't think, "I don't want to go to work," I think, "I don't want to get out of bed." But once I am up and on my way I actually find myself looking forward to the time I spend there. I am fortunate to finally be one of those people who loves what they do.

It would be easy to pick a place to post about that I share with Duncan but anyone who reads this blog would probably be able to draw a map of the places we frequent, from the park to the lake, the dog park to Hero's Pets, and all the places in between. But I've never really talked about work and where it is I go when I'm not spending time with Roo.

My office is the first on the left when you come through the door. I share it with Ben and almost as soon as we moved in together someone posted a picture of The Odd Couple on the window outside our office. Ben is much too young to get the joke and even after we explained it he seemed unimpressed. I'm Felix to his Oscar apparently; he's a jock and spends much of the day listening to sports talk radio on his headphones while I have somehow earned the reputation of being the fastidious one, which couldn't be further from the truth. One has only to look at my desk at home, or my closet, or my bookshelves, to find the proof. But we get along well and spend much of the day taking pot shots at each other. I enjoy Ben and although he wouldn't admit it, he probably doesn't mind spending time with me either.

 

My desk is probably not the most professional in the office. Last Thanksgiving when we held a turkey bowling event I protested by making a sign which reads, "Bake don't bowl." It hangs in the corner above the bulletin / dry-erase board I have yet to discover a practical use for, aside from holding the copy of How to Speak Wookiee my mother gave me for Christmas two years ago. For a time I kept my Star Wars action figures there but they kept falling so I moved them down below, propped against the wall.

Two years ago Duncan and I narrowly avoided being hit in the parking lot when a woman backed up without looking at us. I yanked Dunc out of the way but was struck and knocked into a parked car (all of this the morning before my grandfather passed away, which was also the day I got the most severe food poisoning I've ever had). I was lucky in that I wasn't injured so much as bruised and shaken up but when I returned to work my friend Lisa had left me a recreation of the event, complete with a small, red dog, a Lego Han Solo laying flat on his back, police tape, and a Hot Wheels car. It is one of my most prized possessions and I've taken great care to preserve it as it was presented to me.

In the corner behind it there's a small Zen water fountain, a frame with photos of my family, friends, and the cats, a wonderful piece of art my friend Denise made for me, a digital scale for the shipping I occasionally tend to, and a lamp which gets far too hot. The fountain, the newest addition, has a light that glows as water drips down on three separate tiers, and rocks that I get to arrange as I like. It's cheap and maybe a little tacky but the sound of the water bubbling is soothing and keeps me focused throughout the day.

Above my desk there are a couple of locking shelves where I keep my personal items as well as snacks and the best damn tape gun in the world. I haven't quite figured out what to do with them so I put up a quote I liked from a Ted Talk I listened to along with a couple of pieces of art my boss's daughter drew for me for my birthday.

There's another lamp on the other side of the desk, near my computer where I sit, along with a sinking Titanic, a postcard from Metropolis, Illinois with a picture of Superman, the origami Star Wars pod racer my friend Sean and I constructed on New Year's Eve, a framed photo of Duncan and me that my sister took, and a large Superman action figure given to me by my godson, Elijah. Everyone thinks I'm a Superman fan, and I am, but Batman is the real hero in my book, I just haven't been able to find a cool enough action figure to put up. I look every time I go to Target, though.

The truth is that while I spend a large portion of those three days at the office away from Roo, he's never out of sight. He goes with me everywhere.

And while I sit at my desk answering emails, talking with instructors and students on the phone, and joking with Ben, Duncan is always looking back at me from the wallpaper on my computer monitor.

Duncan is present in all my important places. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Tiny

Prior to an impending storm, one that's been predicted to be large and terrible, the kind that fills the voices of the weatherpeople with urgency as it furrows their brows, I like to turn up the heat, make myself a cup of hot chocolate with just a couple of splashes of peppermint schnapps, pull the blinds and wait until morning to see just how bad it really is. It's my grown-up version of waiting for Santa, although the results are never as rewarding. When morning arrives I'll make my tea, feed the cats, take my shower and wait until Roo is awake and ready to go outside before I pull them open, stand before the windows and marvel at the world outside.

We were told we'd wake in the middle of a blizzard, and as such, half the city closed, including most of the school districts. The wind was supposed to be fierce and terrible and the world was supposed to be a white-out. I dug out my boots and gloves and the little striped knit cap someone bought me for Christmas several years ago, lined them up in front of the door where they would be waiting for me in the morning when Dunc was awake and ready to venture out.

Although the snow is still falling I would hardly call the three or four inches we got overnight anything to write home about (and yet here I am writing about it). The weatherpeople keep adjusting the forecast so now we're being told it's going to continue to snow all day and into the night and that we could still get another four to eight inches. I've been watching this snow, though, and it's wimpy enough that I'm doubting what these weather "experts" are telling us. Most of what I see falling is merely drifting down off my roof. Hell, the parking lot has enormous dry patches in it and the roads are clear. It is cold but not Minnesota or North Dakota cold. Just a regular sort of winter cold. Nothing spectacular and hardly worth mentioning.

All in all I'd say this storm, full of bluster, was about as interesting as CSPAN.

But then I'm not Duncan. I'm not a Golden who takes enormous delight in the tiny dancing sparkles catching the feeble afternoon sun as they drift around his head or getting kicked up by my boots. I don't enjoy running head first into the stuff, spinning around, flinging myself into the air and snapping at the froth of my wake like he does. He rolls and plays and pushes his belly into it and burrows down so that his snout is buried, forgetting the rest of his head is visible, a red, fuzzy lump in a sea of white. He can't contain himself and seems immune to the cold and wet of it, actually seems to relish those thing, and could spend hours playing, springing back and forth across the hill, running circles among the trees, standing under the low pine boughs and blinking into the crystal dust that drifts down on his long eyelashes and waiting pink tongue. While I am never warm in the snow, I am warmed by the pleasure it brings him, his infinite appreciation for it, his gratitude for all things, especially those I work so hard to avoid. It is his experience that enriches my own, and as I watch him blink away the snow that falls on his eyes, mine are opened to the wonder of it, and I love it because he does, and it will always make think of him.

Bless his tremendous joy. There is nothing tiny about it.

Our Plates

I knew there was snow in the forecast but I refused to believe it. Every part of me that has been relishing the taste and feel of sunshine on my skin these past seven days rejected the idea as preposterous. I didn't want to believe that these delicate new spring buds on the trees and the greening grass underfoot would soon be under what some forecasts are predicting could be anywhere from six to eighteen inches of snow, with the temperature tomorrow refusing to climb above twenty degrees. It was warm today, cloudy but warm, and even though the skies to the north and west looked agitated and temperamental I held on to the hope that maybe the Rockies would break and shatter it, send it scattering south and north or in any direction but ours. But tonight as Duncan sat on the hillside in The Glen chewing on a stick, I watched the cold wind toss the hair of his ears, watched him turn his face northward into it, watched him close his eyes, lift his nose and breath in the fragrance of coming snow like the scent of bread baking in the oven. He is not dreading it like those of us who live along the Front Range are dreading it. We are idiots because even though we all know that March and April are our snowiest months of the year, we allow the fickle temptation of spring to seduce us into believing that perhaps this year will be different, that maybe this year the snow will forget about us and leave us to our shorts and open windows while we drive, to the rich smells of meat grilling on our barbeques and the glowing blue-green promise of the waiting swimming pools.

Duncan savors the snows as much as he savors his dinner. And while my plate is full of thoughts of tomorrow's weather, his is full of hopes of rolling in the snow, pulling it around him, snorting it and eating it up as gluttonously as the dinner waiting for him when we got home.

And I, of course, find neither particularly appetizing.

Dreamy

After three walks through the park, three trips down The Run for a game of fetch in The Glen, and a big dinner, Dunc was more than happy to curl up against me on the couch and snooze. It took many years to learn that it's best to let sleeping dogs lie, and required all my strength not to reach down and scritch his ears while he was snoring; and, oh, how carefully I had to move to take a picture but I managed.

He's beautiful when he sleeps, beautiful when he dreams, and I am the most fortunate boy in the world that he's able to do them with me.

Air

It is no secret that I have a difficult time enjoying sports. I was not the strongest child, or the fastest, and I was certainly not the most competitive when it came to throwing, catching, lifting, pulling, or knocking people over. I was never the first kid picked to join a team (unless it had something to do with words or storytelling) and sometimes I was even the last. Athletics were never my strong suit and even after all this time I'm uncomfortable in that realm. Perhaps that's why I dislike the Soccer Hoards and get so angry when I witness unsportsmanlike behavior.

The Little Leaguers have invaded the park where Duncan and I walk all year. During the long winter months there are weeks when we don't pass a single other soul while on our tromps. We are there as the sun is rising and even long after it has set. We are there when the snow is deep, when the rain is falling, when the strong winds rip the branches from the trees. And because of this I get a little protective of it. We love it unconditionally, not just as the season suits and nothing annoys me more than walking after a soccer or baseball game and discovering piles of trash, mostly water bottles, strewn across the lawn. So when I saw the crowds of boys and parents and coaches spread across the park yesterday I immediately felt myself tense up.

I have witnessed coaches and players treating each other in the most despicable of manners so when I saw a group of boys standing in a semi-circle practicing hitting I watched them carefully. The coach was kneeling in the center of their circle tossing balls at each boy. One by one they hit the balls, which shot straight up into the air, a hit that could have easily been caught by even the most novice of catchers during a game. And then came the littlest boy's turn. The coach tossed the ball at him and he swung and missed. The coach tried again and once again the boy missed. He was the first not to hit the ball so immediately the other boys began jeering at him even though they were teammates. The coach tried again and again, on and on, and even though the scorn of his teammates escalated while the coach did nothing to contain it, the boy persevered. And then finally there was a solid swing and a strong hit. The ball ricocheted off the bat, low and fast, cutting through the air as it sped past the coach and the boys. It flew far, uncatchable by his teammates and landed well outside their circle. Immediately the name-calling stopped and was followed by a profound silence.

I pumped my fist and called, "Good one," and gave the kid a thumb's up as they all turned and looked at me. "Way to go!"

He smiled, gave a slight nod of his head and smiled softly.

I felt vindicated and proud of him.

A Good Thing

Duncan plays many roles in my life, from best friend to therapist, teacher to pillow, but it's important to let him be a dog, too, which is what he is first and foremost. So on walks like the one we took this afternoon, when he doesn't want to walk next to––or near me even––when he ambles off in his own direction and won't come when called, won't even acknowledge he's heard my voice, I'm reminded that sometimes he has nothing to show me, nowhere to lead me, no crucial bit of wisdom to impart, no comfort to offer. Sometimes he just wants to pee on every tree, rock, or stray backpack set aside by some bearded, shirtless dude playing football with his buddies. Sometimes he could care less what I'm doing because he just needs to do what dogs do in the wide open spaces on a sunny spring day. And while it can be frustrating and often embarrassing ("I am so sorry about your shirt. I'll pay for the dry-cleaning. Here's my number. Let me know how much it costs."), it's also a good thing, because sometimes the lesson is that we should always be what we really are.

This Happened Today

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

(Mary Oliver)

My eyes are quick for Spring, for the first glimmer of green under a mess of snow or concealed by the devastation of last season's once-leaves, and as April quickens I feel my eyes hunting for and preying on the newness of the world. The grass has made a valiant effort, slowly shaking aside its matted coat of brown and yellow, cautiously slipping into something more comfortable, brighter, flirtatious even. But I am impatient and the grass has not been enough. While Duncan and I have walked my gaze has prowled the uppermost branches, the highest beacons of the trees for the first glimmer of green and today, as Ken walked with Duncan at his side, I strolled slowly behind, examining each limb and finger, combing every inch of the maples and willows, the ash and cottonwoods, like I comb Duncan for ticks after a romp up my mother's mountain, my eyes hungry for a bud broken and shattered by the first swelling of an unfurling leaf.

And then, after leaving the park and turning back toward home, after stopping to check the mail and dispose of the relentless flow of coupons and junk, I saw it, a single tree, the sky bluer than blue above it, calmly but certainly bursting with buds. So I stopped and marveled as I do every year at this time, gazing as though I have never seen such a thing, as though winter had been thirty years long and green was something not witnessed since childhood. And I didn't feel foolish because this should be the only way to look at the newness of spring, of the coming of the leaves, of the blessed change of season. This should be law and the penalty should be severe for anyone who does not pause and give thanks.

Forty-two times I have lost my virginity to spring and if The Universe is willing, I will lose it forty-two times more. 

This happened today. 

Starts with "A"

Duncan has no qualms. He is an unabashed window peeper. Each time we venture down The Run Dunc prefers to gallop through the bushes and trees that grow along the edges of the apartments, stopping more often than I care to admit, to stare straight into the homes and lives of the people who reside within. It happens even when we're walking on-leash. He'll pause to peek through the blinds at another dog, or a cat who's perched on the sill, or even just to take a gander at folks eating their breakfasts or dinners. On more than one occasion he's caught someone emerging from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around their body, singing softly to themselves while they dry their hair or pick out their clothes. I tend to stand off to the side, my back turned, my arm wrenched at an awkward angle in the hopes that they'll recognize my dog as the pervert and not me.

This afternoon he paused in front of The Witch's Lair, raised his hackles and growled a low, deep growl, the kind I don't hear very often from him. I'd been walking a bit ahead, whistling, as I'm known to do, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the incredible spring sky. When I noticed he wasn't at my side I turned back and saw him looking as though he was about to pounce through the window and attack whatever it was on the other side. I hurried back to him and laughed when I saw what had caught his attention.

Hanging on a chair in the window was the ugliest afghan I'd ever seen, a purple and orange thing, made of thick, fuzzy yarn that looked like it had been skinned from some sort of creature conjured by the imagination of HR Giger. It was not a pretty thing and looked too thin to offer much in the way of warmth, but was instead meant as some sort of decoration. Either that or a quick throw to toss over a dead body. One never knows when dealing with The Witch.

I called to Roo softly in hopes of avoiding attracting the attention of the wretched woman who owns the thing, but he would not listen. So after snapping a quick picture for my April Photo-of-the-Day Challenge, I leaned in, leashed him up and pulled him away. He kept looking back over his shoulder, though, and growling, then back up at me as though shocked I wouldn't let him attack and kill it. 

 

It wasn't until we arrived at The Glen and I removed his leash that he put it out of his mind. I'd been stressing my photo all day, looking for things that started with the letter "A" and hardly noticed when he led me to an aspen tree, plopped down in front of it and waited for me to figure out what he was trying to tell me. It was almost as though he refused to let me use the afghan and wanted something prettier instead. So I snapped a picture to appease him and led him across the street to the park for the rest of our walk.

 

 

As usual, Duncan knows best.

Blue

Duncan and the cats have reluctantly traded their bright patches of sunlit carpet for low, cloudy skies––the kind of day that's perfect for curling up on the couch under a blanket and snuggling. I've been working from home today and after watching Pip and Duncan sit in the window looking out over their gray world, Duncan and I ventured outside for a quick bathroom break (his, not mine). We meandered lazily across the slowly greening grass where the rabbits roost and happened to pass a neighbor's car, which only two days ago, was bright and shiny and clean, but after a night of rain and gloom, it wasn't as reflective as I'd hoped. Nonetheless Duncan stopped long enough for a quick shot and today's photo's challenge entry.

Afterward we scurried back inside, where it was warm and cozy and smelled like hot chocolate. Duncan, of course, didn't get a sip, but I gave him a bully stick instead, which he took back to his bed, where he was able to nestle down among the blankets and chew to his heart's delight.

Play

I've decided to join my blogging friend Sue (from Random Ramblings) in the April Photo-a-Day challenge. I'll be posting my photos on Instagram (If you're an Instagram member you can follow me under the username jimmycurt138) as well as on my Tumblr photoblog, Journeys and Destinations. While I hope to take a picture a day according to the themes provided, sometimes it's harder than just pointing and shooting. Some of them may include Dunc, and some may simply be things we see on our walks. We'll see how it goes.

Today's theme is "Play" so this morning Roo and I ventured up to the playground at the park, which he loves to climb all over. As an added bonus he always manages to look handsome against the bright red and blue colors. He had no problem going up and taking the slide back down, but he refused to play on the teeter totter with me, and don't even ask about the swing set debacle, so this one will have to suffice.

Red

Today is the day the Prop 8 case goes before the Supreme Court, and tomorrow they'll hear arguments on the constitutionality of DOMA (the Defense of Marriage Act), which denies marriage rights to same-sex couples. In an act of solidarity, people all over the country have decided to wear red as a means of showing support for same-sex couples and the rights currently denied to them.

I, of course, have been all over this.

And Dunc, not wanting to be left out or outdone, decided to join in and support his two dads.

I'd like to invite you to join us, too. Today and tomorrow people are wearing red to show their support for marriage equality. Don't be left behind. History is on our side.

A Simple Melody

There are things I refuse to take for granted, little things that are so easily overlooked, like the sun still shining when I got home, still bright and high, beaming a blinding gold off the snow and ice. For too long Duncan and I have walked in the dark after I return home from work, and for too long it's been easy to neglect the stories he creates when we walk, to grow tired and lazy in the dark of my apartment after a long day. But this evening the sun was there, glorious and blazing, refusing to be ignored despite the cold and treachery of the ice.

We were standing in a grove of juniper trees, Duncan sniffing and taking his time, examining each of the spots other dogs had visited, thrusting his nose deep into the powder or standing under a bough bent low under the weight of the snow, watching as flakes, and occasionally entire clumps, drifted down onto his upturned face. After a bit he pulled away causing my shoulder to brush a branch where the long silver icicles, burning with the last of the sun's light, grazed their long bodies against each other, whispering a delicate chime reserved for our ears ears only. Duncan looked up at them, his eyes wide and full of wonder, as did I, and for a very long time we played, knocking them softly together and marveling at their tone and the hushed bell-like luster of the melody ringing across and through the snow and glistening needles.

Such a simple thing but the highlight of my day, a refrain I will never be able to recreate nor forget.

The Witch

So there is this woman who lives here, mid-way down The Run. I've written about her before, and have spent nearly every walk since those initial encounters biting my tongue and playing nice. But last summer, after several unpleasant words, I've taken to calling her The Witch. Her patio is decorated with all manner of unpleasant hangings, bizarre wind chimes that, for all I know, could be made from the bones of little fingers of children she has lured into her abode with promises of sweets and goodies; baskets made of wicker that look like aboriginal snares and ghastly, clotted paintings that depict what I can only imagine is her mood at any given moment. Late in the fall, just before the first snows came, a number of tall, grizzly-looking bird feeders appeared, brassy, copper-ish things turned green with age, with strange shapes and undulating figures running up their sides, their wide basins open mouths waiting to swallow the finches and nuthatches which frequent Jeffrey's patio only a hundred yards away. She fills them regularly with seeds and grains and while the birds have largely ignored them the squirrels have been unable to turn their backs on the treats she puts out as offerings.

She is a short thing with wild, white hair, who crouches and lurks in her window watching for Duncan each morning as we pass by and then again in the afternoons and evenings. She has chastised me for not cleaning up after him––a crime I have never committed––and has lectured me about keeping him away from the flowers she has planted in the common area that does not belong to her. She is mightily unpleasant and a dark cloud seems to hang over that area of The Run no matter the season or the time of day. I have worked tirelessly at training Roo to stay away from her patio and the bulbs which erupt there in the spring, but he is a lover of all things bright and wonderful, those things that sway in a summer breeze, and the wondrous things which make music by the invisible hands of the wind. It hasn't been easy but I try. And last summer, when I spied her lurking behind her curtains waiting to reprimand me for his appearance once again on her patio, I started warning Dunc, loudly so she could hear, "Be careful, Roo. Get too close and she'll turn you into gingerbread. Or worse, a toad! And I don't have any water on me to melt her down should she get too close." She's stopped accosting us but she hasn't ceased her glowering or the loud sighs and grunts which emanate from behind her screen door and windows.

She was on her patio this morning, clad in a bright orange bathrobe, so short as to leave her mottled and purple-veined knees exposed, her skinny legs white and twiggish, impossibly pale even in the glare of the thick, new snow and the bitter cold. I did not see her so when she screamed, a guttural low roar, I jumped and Duncan tripped over himself as his body tensed and recoiled all at once.

"You scared me," I laughed uneasily as she hissed loudly and waved her hands in the air, the limp band of a slingshot wagging above her head.

"These damn squirrels," she cursed as one darted past Duncan and up a nearby birch. Duncan, terrified of the crone, didn't dare follow after it. He sat solidly beside me, his weight pushing against my leg. "They won't leave the bird feeders alone."

"I know they have special feeders you can get that make it difficult for squirrels to get the seed. My mother has several," I offered.

"I don't want other feeders. I want these," she spat and hissed again at another squirrel. "So I got this slingshot. Just about took the leg off one yesterday. And now he's limping around. Can't even climb very fast. I hope the coyotes get him."

I blinked, astonished at her malice. I patted Duncan's head and softly urged him forward. "Let's go, Roo."

"You should get your dog back here to scare them off," she said. "He can finally be useful."

I just stared at her, my back straightening and my gloved hands clenching in my pockets. There were a myriad of things I wanted to say, none of them nice, several of them downright awful, but instead I took a deep breath and said, very calmly, "You have made it clear you want my dog nowhere near your patio and I've trained him to stay away. He is very useful but he will never be of any use to you. I wouldn't allow it." I turned away but then stopped and looked back at her. "And if I ever see that slingshot again I'll report you to the leasing office." And with that, we walked away. Duncan strutted beside me, head high, tail even higher, perhaps proud of his papa, perhaps simply happy to be done with that old witch.

I was just happy to finally give her (a tiny sample of) The Full Curt.

Nesting

Earlier this week it was warm and sunny and all the promises of an early Spring seemed so close we could touch them. While the trees have not even begun to bud yet and the grass is still matted and yellow, the earth seems to be loosening up, and the air has been filled with the faintest of Spring-ish fragrances. The sun has been high and bright, chasing away the occasional gloomy grey clouds, and the air has been warm enough that we have slept with the windows open twice. As you know, I'm a whistler and the last few months I've been whistling some rather mellow, wintery sorts of songs on our walks (I do a mean "Nature Boy" and an even meaner "I'll Be Seeing You"), but this past week has found me whistling a couple of springtime favorites: "I Feel Good," (a Nina Simone classic) and "Recipe For Love" (a Harry Connick, Jr. favorite that requires my eyebrows to dance while my head bobs from side to side as Duncan and I walk down The Run).

And then this morning this happened

So Duncan and I have spent much of the day nestled up on the couch, occasionally getting pushed out of the way by Pip, who seems to regard us as little more than warm pillows arranged for his convenience. We have napped and watched a movie, snacked on a leftover piece of pizza, sipped at the chicken noodle soup simmering on the stove, and ventured outside only every now and then. But it takes almost ten minutes to get my boots and hat, gloves and jackets and coat pulled on, zipped up and ready to go. And then neither of us particularly wants to be outside in it for very long. It's cold and the snow keeps finding a way to bite at the soft spota tucked under Roo's pads. He limps and tries his hardest to be brave and endure until I come to the rescue, but after several failed trips he's decided a warm couch, or even the bed, is a nicer spot.

 And that's just fine with me because this is what I get to see all day.

The last of winter's snarls may batter and bite at us, but it also brings us closer together. And that makes the wait for spring endurable.



Post Script: And yes, Aunt Lori, that is the blanket you knitted for us. It is has been our salvation every night these past few months and I wonder how we ever got along without it. Bless you!

There at the Beginnings

Since the middle of last summer when she and her husband first moved in on a hot July day when there seemed no relief from the sun and dry air, Duncan and I have been waiting for Cassie to have her baby. We met her and her husband the night they finished unloading their truck, carrying all of their belongings, which weren't many, up three flights of stairs in a neighboring building. They were taking a walk across the street to the park with their dog Luka, and as we were headed in the same direction we walked a ways together, chatting casually as strangers and neighbors do. When I marveled that they seemed in remarkably good spirits despite moving on such a hot day Cassie blushed, looked at her husband (whose name I can never remember) and confessed, "We just found out we're going to have a baby."

And so began our ritual, passing each other once or twice a week, usually early in the morning before work and then again late at night on our last walk before heading to bed. Duncan and Luka would sniff each other out, walking in circles around each other, forcing Cassie and I to do that awkward dance known to all dog walkers whereby we reach around and under each other to untangle the leashes. We'd laugh and I'd ask, "How's the baby?' I got updates and as Autumn came and turned to winter we watched her belly grow until finally her coat became too small to contain all of her.

And then last night, after the long snow finally tapered off and the low orange clouds drifted away revealing a sky as magnificent as any I've seen in a long time, we passed her again. She was enormous and the coat she'd bought to replace the one she'd worn for so long, wasn't even zipped up. Her belly was massive and low and I couldn't help but see how uncomfortable she was.

"Not yet, huh?" I asked.

"We're a week overdue," she sighed, petting the top of Luka's head. He was being a good boy, staying right at her side, avoiding Duncan and the inevitable dance of leashes.

"I hear that's common the first time around," I smiled.

"But I think tonight is the night." She rubbed her belly with one hand. "She's been moving around a lot all day."

"Hang in there," I said, and when I gave Luka a treat for being such a good boy Cassie let out a little oomph kind of noise, tensed up and then froze. "Is everything okay?" I asked.

She nodded quickly and then began to back away, pulling Luka after her. "My water just broke," she said. "I need to go. Sorry," she offered, as though afraid I thought it rude to depart so suddenly.

"Go," I told her excitedly, a smile wide across my face. "Do you need help? Do you need me to take Luka?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm good. Thank you," and then she hurried away, never turning her back to me.

Duncan sat down in the middle of the parking lot beside me and together we watched her climb the stairs ready to hurry to her side if she needed help. But she made it inside and not long after, after climbing my own stairs and pulling the blinds, looking out on the night from the warm side of my window, I watched her husband help her into their car and pull out of the parking lot, their taillights glowing red on the ice and new snow.