I Will Walk

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After the washer and drier have been hoisted up three flights of narrow stairs, the couch and armoire and every other heavy piece of furniture I own lugged up after them, after the countless over-packed boxes of books, kitchen gadgets, clothing, desk junk, CDs and DVDs, and every other manner of minutiae clogging my life have been tossed into their respective rooms to be opened and sorted, after all the good, kind people who have squeezed my shoulder, offered hugs, listened while I struggled through this have gone, after Mom and Casey––who traveled all this way to lend their support and muscle, to be here for me when I needed them most, enduring the snow and the cold and the treacherous roads––have climbed into their rented Jeep and driven away, leaving me once again alone in a parking lot watching them turn the corner and slip from view, what do I do?

I stood a long time in the parking lot yesterday, the near-constant drip of melting ice and snow playing like a percussive symphony all around me. I remembered that afternoon in Lake Forest seventeen years ago, after the three of us had driven across the country to deliver me to the college of my choosing. After unpacking my room and meeting my roommate they gave me my hugs, tried their hardest to hide their tears and then climbed into the car and drove away, leaving me to build an entire life from nothing. This time, though, things were different; I had a life of my own, but as I climbed those thirty-seven stairs and came into my apartment, the sun sitting on the downward side of its westerly travels, its light spraying my office and living room in deep gold, I couldn't seem to remember exactly what it was and I didn't know exactly what to do with it.

What do you do when everything you know and love seems so far away, when the objects you've surrounded yourself with seem like empty relics and you can't quite remember what they meant or why? I stood for a long time––an hour maybe––trying to remember who I was and what I was supposed to do, feeling more than seeing the sun sink below the jagged line of the mountains, casting my small corner of the world into cool, blue shadow.

It took a long time, working through the numb and then the anger and sadness, but eventually I remembered. At least one little part of it.

I did what I always do. I walked with my best friend, let him lead me across the street to the park where he entertained me with rolls through the snow, snorting and cavorting as though everything would somehow, in some nearly inconceivable way be alright again. If not now, soon.

And when Duncan and I returned to this new home, I dug through boxes until I found the first piece of this new life puzzle––a Christmas gift from my mother––and I hung it on the wall in the door exactly where it belongs.


And somehow it made things a little better.

Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.

A Conspiracy of Rabbits

Duncan and I were out at a little past six this morning. I'd left the office window cracked open a bit and the air was warm enough that I didn't need a jacket. And even though it was still mostly dark, I could see the rabbits on the other side of the window. There were three huddled along the fence directly behind my apartment, all watching through the glass as Duncan watched me pull on my socks and shoes. They were nearly invisible, dim gray humps against the yellow grass and Duncan would not have noticed them except that when we appeared outside their ears perked up and their bodies went stiff. Duncan tensed, slid into his sleek hunter pose and led me slowly toward them, his feet lifting slowly in the air and almost trembling with anticipation as he stepped forward and brought them back down. It was too early for games so all three bunnies darted through the grass and across the parking lot to the small oasis of green which winds between the three buildings across from our own.

We followed slowly behind, Duncan pulling hard on his leash while I keep murmuring, "Poop. Go poop, Roo." He would have none of it, focused as he was on the bouncing white moons of the retreating rabbits. We crossed after them and as we neared the corner of the closest building we stopped long enough for Duncan to sniff a shrub and raise his leg over it. I squinted into the dim morning and spotted our three rabbits not far away, and just beyond them three more. All six seemed alert, but none of them were paying any attention to us.

And then there was pandemonium like I hadn't expected. The three rabbits closest bolted straight at us, the three beyond them close behind. Duncan jerked, stopped peeing and lunged forward around the corner of the building in time to spot four or five more rabbits charging directly at us, their ears back tight, their bodies sleek as they bounded, hardly touching the ground. I took a step back, startled, wondering if after months of chasing them across the park and all over our property, if the rabbits hadn't held a council and reached some sort of consclusion regarding the fate of Duncan and his companion. Had they lain in wait, plotting, lead us into an ambush? And what exactly would that entail? How much damage could a small herd of rabbits do to a person? I didn't have long to think as they swept around us for Duncan reared up and lunged and a moment later the coyote appeared.

He was in a dead run, chasing rabbits, snapping at them as he went. He was big, taller than Duncan, and very white with spatters of gold and grey along his back and head. But his tongue was wide and pink and lolled out of his mouth in a way that reminded me of Duncan when he chases the raindrops. The rabbits, trapped between us, paused for only a moment and then decided to take their chance with Duncan and me. They skidded past and around the building, scattering under the bushes, making for the other side of the fence. The coyote stopped and stared, maybe twenty feet away.

Duncan didn't know what to make of him, and after our long visit to The Ponds last night, I'm sure he thought he was about to make a new friend. I, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was and didn't like the nearness of him, the look in his eyes, which alternated between playful puppy and feral animal. He simply stared for a long time and when Duncan whined, wagged his tail and pulled on his leash, the coyote retreated a few steps, but all too soon leaned far forward on his long legs and sniffed. I could see his nostrils undulating as he took us in. He took a single step forward before I reacted.

The only thing I could remember about wildness encounters was about mountain lions but I figured, why not. I raised my arms high above my head and in a very low, and very absurd voice, moaned loudly, a deep gutteral Dickensian-ghostly sound that surprised even me. The coyote flinched and darted away, looking back once over his shoulder as he loped off. And once he'd gone I'm sure I felt the eyes of countless rabbits on us, breathing a soft sigh of relief, perhaps reevaluating their earlier plans.

Walking Away

Early this morning, before the sky had turned blue and was still playing with pinks and golds, before the soccer and baseball crowds claimed the entirety of the park for themselves, the geese and gulls wandered freely, paddling along the shore of the lake, waddling across the fields still covered by their fading, crumbling tootsie roll droppings. It was nice to see the gulls, to sit on the hillside above the water and watch them hover over the shore, the cuh-reek cuh-reek of their voices echoing off the trees and the backs of the strip malls which line the north shore. Duncan rolled in the loose yellow grass, pleased with the way it clung to him, snorting joyously when it refused to be shaken loose, even after I slid my hand along his back to brush it away. He'd found a nice stick and pranced around, plopping down next to me occasionally before galloping off again.

I watched the geese, their comings and goings, the way they flocked together in tight groups and seemed to follow one another as they plodded through the muddy bank then up the grass and into the dim promise of the slow-to-rise sun. They did not venture far from one another as they waded through the flocks and seeing them was a bit like watching the families which fill the playground each afternoon: Father and Mother drive up, unload the strollers and toys and lead their flock of children to the red, yellow and blue plastic behemoth assembled in a pit of wood chips and sand. And when it's time to go Father and Mother gather them all again and herd them back to the van.

The geese, though, after sticking so closely to the same three or four others, eventually drift apart, losing them amid the crowd, and while they may crane their heads back and forth for a bit, barking for their lost friends, even that seems to grow wearisome. By the time a loose golden lab charged down the hill at them, shattering the flock into pieces and driving them into the air above our heads, I was pretty sure their old acquaintances meant nothing, had been forgotten in the rush of flight. I watched one group veer toward the golf course and another head south, perhaps as far as the reservoir at Chatfield. And I wondered, do they pine for the friendships they made on this morning? Do they even remember?

It all seems so casual, these animal relationships, the meeting and the parting. And as I disassemble the life Ken and I began thirteen years ago, I can't help but wonder if their way isn't easier. For the goose or the gull, or the skulk of foxes who have carved out a den in the field on the southern side of the prairie dog town, there is no dividing of lives, reliving of memories, fond fingering of gifts and cards and mementos. They simply walk away. I am not so fortunate. I have to pack my things and watch as Ken packs his. I have to wonder if at the end of this separation we have agreed to, whether we will ever share another Thanksgiving dinner at the dining room table we picked out together, whether our bed will ever hold the six of us again, Duncan sprawled between us, Winnie on my hip, Pip at my chest, one paw resting on Ken's elbow, Olive roosting like an owl on the pillows above our heads, her eyes wide and yellow. There is no walking away. Not when you're in love and confused and unsure of what the future holds for you.

Duncan and I will always walk, but this time, just this once, I'd give anything to know the destination.

Perhaps

Duncan has not been feeling well. Or rather, Duncan doesn't feel well when in my presence. When Ken is home he's all tail wags, smiling face, lolling tongue and solid poop. I get the opposite more often than not. I'm sure it's stress from the appearance of the boxes and the rearranging and sorting and the general sadness which has overtaken our home, and it makes me want to tell him, "It's okay. We'll be okay. I haven't had solid poop since this all began either." But he doesn't understand so I sit with him, always touching him, running my fingers along the dark curls on his back, slipping under his paws or between his toes, sliding my foot along his ribs, back and forth. I take him out when he needs it and I speak softly.

I have not been sleeping well and because he hasn't either we often find ourself making quick trips outside very late, when the stars are bright and seem to roll across our sky, or early in the morning at that moment when the darkness is on the verge of shattering and dawn trembles with anticipation in the east, when the stars and moon hold their breath and watch as night once again concedes the struggle.

This morning Dunc stood at my side of the bed, his nose almost touching my hand and whined softly into the mattress. I am a very light sleeper and snapped awake, the big brown eyes of my dog almost level with mine. He whined softly again, as though taking care not to disturb Ken––who could sleep through the Apocalypse––and then turned to the door, his signal that we must leave now, that he's waited until the very last possible second to wake me and if we're not outside immediately no one will be happy with the results. I hurried into my slippers, grabbed a jacket and leash and ushered him outside.

The dawn was gray with pink and gold foam on its edges, a thin line of clouds hovering just above the horizon. Duncan and I walked up and down the narrow lane of grass behind our home as he searched for a spot to tend to business, which does not happen when his belly is sick. At times like this he's rarely choosy and barely makes it out the door before squatting and avoiding eye contact with me. But this morning he walked with diligence and led me back and forth across the stretch of lawn, sniffing carefully then wheeling suddenly around to hurry in the opposite direction. Having just come from bed the air was blessedly cool on my face and against my sockless ankles. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and followed him up and down the fence line and the accompanying sluice, which when dry collects pine needles, sticks and twigs, the occasional Starbucks cup and all manner of things. It had recently been blown out but a week of high winds had filled it again. Duncan pulled me west, almost in the direction of our new apartment and The Glen and then, at the moment the sun broke the surface of the horizon and erupted into the world, he turned and led me straight into its fresh light. The clouds hovering just above it filtered the rays into a very tight and concentrated band of intense gold, vivid and so thick I almost felt it lap against my slippers.

And then, without having attended to the task which pulled me from bed, he sat at the edge of the run-off ditch and waited. I stood behind him, called his name and pulled a little on the leash but he refused to look at me, staring, instead, straight down the cement line running along the fence. I looked to see if I could spy a squirrel undulating through the grass or a bunny playing statue under a low shrub, but there was nothing, only a single ball of golden fluff bouncing in the soft breeze toward us. Duncan cocked his head and wagged his tail from side to side as it neared, its edges brilliant in the narrow beam of sun. As it rolled forward Duncan climbed to his feet and took an anxious step toward it as if greeting an old friend, someone he'd prearranged a meeting with. He nosed it softly, lifting it away from the cement and into the grass where it ceased to move, then turned to me with the expression I've seen so many times, as if to say, "Here, I brought this for you. It's important. I want you to have it."

It was two feathers, their soft frayed edges glorious with golden light, wrapped up in each other "head to toe," a sort of yin yang. My breath rushed out of me and I knelt in the grass and pressed my face into Duncan's soft chest which caught my tears and carried them away. He licked my cheek and for the first time in a very long time the morning was beautiful again.

Not Walking, Just Standing

I've spent so much time the last few days unaware of the sun and the brilliant bright mornings which have overtaken us, warming my face and painting Duncan a startling gold by seven A.M.. Duncan has been patient and generous with my spirit, but I wonder if perhaps he has been walking me instead of the other way around. This morning he led me outside and down the yard, turning to look at me over his shoulder as if to make sure of me, to see whether or not I'd noticed the blue of the sky or the softness of the grass beneath our feet, the way its slowly beginning to turn green, despite the inevitability of a heavy March snow. I have been a bad walker, oblivious to the world around us, only the dull scuff of each step along the sidewalk, across the streets and through the park, trapped some place between my head and heart, Roo's leash the only thing grounding me, his soft pull a sort of wandering anchor.

This morning, when the sun seemed garish and harsh, when all I wanted was to climb back in bed and forget the boxes littering my living room and the work that should have begun days ago but hasn't because I'm too tired and too fearful, I longed for sunset and the safety of the stars. I craned my head skyward hoping to spy just one, perhaps low in the west where the sun could not quite reach. And when I didn't find any I felt my thoughts drift over the mountains, across the desert to home, where perhaps one or two still twinkled in the sky above Pocatello. I imagined them, resting just above the hillside across the valley from my mother's house, breaking through the bare trees just outside her big picture window, but even that seemed empty and brought little solace.

I'd never considered what stars do during the day but then I realized they're still there, whole constellations I haven't seen and would never know the names of even if I did. They go no where, it's we who drift and move from one side of the world to the other, and maybe if we're patient, if we wait through the day and spot them early enough in the evening, when they are still sleepy-eyed and groggy, they'll listen to us, hear our voices and offer us the peace our hearts seek.

When I left the school tonight, vowing to take Dunc on a long walk through the park and maybe up the hill to overlook the lake, Venus, the Evening Star, was the first thing I saw, shining almost directly over my home three miles away where Duncan sat waiting for me. The sound of the traffic on Santa Fe Drive faded and for a long moment, not walking, just standing and looking at that bright spot above the mountains, it was just Venus and me. I felt I had to say something to her, maybe remind her who I am and praise her, but the only thing I could think of was a child's rhyme, but somehow that seemed perfect.

Star light, star bright,
the first star I see tonight;
I wish I may
I wish I might
Have the wish I wish tonight.

It was a beautiful walk even if my wish doesn't come true.

Image courtesy of www.nasa.gov

The First Sunday in March

Things which sounded like they'd make me feel better but didn't:

• Sunshine on a beautiful March day
• Listening to that last playlist I made on my iPod
• A jalapeno burger from Carl's Jr.
• Laying on my back on the hillside in The Glen watching the few thin clouds pass over the bare uppermost branches of the Aspen trees.
• Phone calls
• A bottle of wine
• Laying in bed for a few hours not doing the laundry, not taking a shower, not finishing the carpet cleaning which I started yesterday morning before everything changed.
• Seeing the park and baseball fields fill up with crowds of people running and playing in the sun.
• Chasing bunnies with Duncan
• A box of Wheat Thins and the really good bad dip from the King Soopers Deli
  
• The movie Singing in the Rain
• Driving with the windows down and my arm hanging out while the song "Against All Odds" played on the radio.
• A visit to Hero's
• Smoking on the patio and watching the thin thread of a spiderweb elongate and shine gold in the afternoon light
• A very long nap, followed by a second one
• A glass of wine in the afternoon
• "Robot Chicken"
• The Winnie the Pooh story which contains the passage, "And then he gave a very long sigh and said, 'I wish Pooh were here. It's so much more friendly with two.'"

The Thing Which Was Unexpected and Brought Sunshine to My Heart:

• Duncan curling himself around me, laying a paw across my chest, licking my cheeks clean and then resting his head quite near my chin, where we both slept, dreaming of other places and other things.

Grapes and Raisins

I'm sure most of you know how deadly grapes and raisins can be to your animal companion, but just in case I wanted to remind you again. Not only should you not feed your dog either of these things but you should be ever vigilant and mindful of any products you keep in your home which may contain them. Most of us are very attentive to our pets but accidents happen to the best of us, as I can attest after the nearly fatal Great Yarn Crisis of 2006.

Recently my friend Traci, a former professional dog walker and devoted companion to two Beagles, Murphy and Chloe, suffered a scare when Murphy got into a bag of raisin bread. Luckily Traci was home when it happened and was able to quickly induce vomiting, which probably saved Murphy's life. She rushed him to the ER, where he was given two charcoal treatments and had fluids administered. Traci made eight different trips to the vet in three days and had to learn to give poor Murphy subcutaneous injections after his IV was removed. Needless to say it was a difficult week for both of them and even though it looks as though Murphy will be fine Traci has been blaming herself for the entire incident. She shouldn't, of course, because none of us can anticipate what our pets will do or try or get into. All we can do is learn from others and make small adjustments in our own homes.

Traci urged me to remind everyone that danger lurks in the most unlikely places (raisin bread is a double whammy because of the raisins and the sugars, which can cause pancreatitis) and adamantly insists, "The earlier treatment begins the greater the chances are for a complete recovery. Don't wait for symptoms to begin. It can take 48 to 72 hours for the kidneys to show signs of toxicity. By that time, it may be too late." Make sure you know where to locate the closest animal ER in your area and keep your vet's contact information where it will be handy (mine is programmed into both my cell phone and land line).

If you have any questions about what not to feed the dogs in your life a simple internet search will turn up a wealth of information, or you can click here for a quick list of things to avoid giving your animal friends.

A Walk with Grandma

It was warm today with a donut sky, a big swath of blue ringed by a wide band of clouds which seemed content to swirl around us without ever quite swallowing our patch of sunshine. It was windy, however. A cold wind, the kind that left the fetal folds of my ears feeling bruised and as heavy as stone while the tender pink insides stung and throbbed as though they'd been filled with sand or angry bees. It was a grimacing wind, forcing a pained and rabid smile across my face and my teeth still ache as though I've bitten straight down into hard vanilla ice cream. Even the bottoms of my feet, which were covered by heavy socks and thick rubber soles, are cold, especially the very tips of my big toes. I wonder, on walks like this, when the wind has stripped and plucked the weakest branches from the trees, scattering them across the brittle yellow grass, how Duncan can love it so much, how his tender paws––which feel like soft, stern pillows against my cheeks when we cuddle or wrestle–– can be strong enough to endure the rough cold of the road or the bite of the twigs as they snap beneath him. But there is joy in each step he takes, joy and work, and that's what got me thinking about the hardest walk I've made.

Today would've been my grandmother's eightieth birthday. As Duncan and I trudged across the park, leaning into and cursing the wind even as I said a quiet blessing for the sunshine, which has only recently reappeared on our evening walks, I thought of my last walk with Grandma, which was probably the most important walk we shared. She was an expert at walking and taught me an appreciation for the slow journey and all the unfoldings it can offer our senses. Unlike the rest of my family, I never really enjoyed fishing, unless, of course, I landed one. On most of our family outings Grandma kept me occupied, making the best peanut butter and raspberry sandwiches I've ever had, telling long stories about my mother and uncles, the farm they'd all lived on when the family was young and new, the animals they'd loved and cared for. And we'd walk. While Grandpa was fly-fishing downstream of us, Grandma would lead me down a rutted dirt road, the thick smell of mint rising up as loudly as the horse flies and cicadas which droned insanely from their unseen perches in the trees and undergrowth. It was on those walks she taught me to be vigilant for the deer, which became a sort of trademark of our bond. She taught me to listen and to hum and to tell stories with her.

Her death was a very difficult experience for me but when I was asked to deliver her eulogy I was able to take the lessons she'd taught me and share them with the rest of the family. It was an excruciatingly hot July day so I retreated to my special spot in the mountains south of Pocatello, climbed a hill and settled down under a tall pine on a low rock with a bed of cracked and broken shale spread out around me. With only the sound of the bees and the breeze running down the valley before me, I found the kind of words I think Grandma would've been proud of, words which as hard as they were to speak, brought a silent and tremendous joy to my heart.

It was the last walk which was the most difficult. I hadn't expected to be a pallbearer, and was shocked to see my name included on the list of cousins at the bottom of the program. It was not something I wanted to do and rebelled at the thought. Writing and speaking the eulogy, keeping my composure when all I wanted to do was shout and cry, seemed more than enough for one person to do. I could not imagine carrying her coffin to its spot on the hillside which overlooked the valley where she grew up. I refused and threw what was the last tantrum of my adult life, until my friend Mike called and explained that I should look on it as an honor, to carry her on the last walk we would share. And so I did it, my cousins at my side. We lifted the casket from the car and moved solemnly across the grass to her spot in the shade under a tall tree. I remember each and every step we took and the weight, not just of her dazzling white casket, but of every memory and emotion I carried with me on that hot afternoon, of the faces gathered around watching, the hands clasped tightly together, the heat and perspiration running in a straight line from my collar down my spine.

Duncan entered our lives shortly after my grandmother died and I have been walking nearly every day since, not with the same heaviness of heart, but with the same attention to detail Grandma inspired in me on all those walks all those years ago. And on days like today, when the sun is bright but the wind in our faces is bitter and ornery, when every thought somehow finds its way back to the absence of her, I can take comfort in the details, in humming a little song as I go, in the light dancing through and playing with the wild hair at Duncan's ears and the curls across his back. There is solace and peace in every step we take.

The Feel of the World

I have been sick and not excited about leaving the safe confines of my couch, wrapped in my unzipped sleeping bag, surrounded by a platoon of tissue boxes, a vapor rub jar, glasses and mugs with the residue of licorice tea and orange juice ringing their bottoms. It was a sudden thing, this sinus condition of mine, and although not the worst, bad enough that it knocked me off my feet for three days and has now taken up residence in my chest, where it likes to remind me of its presence with a pounding cough that hurts my ribs and the muscles of my back. Duncan and the cats have been kind and generous, camping out with me, manning their posts at various stations along my body, from my ankles all the way up to the crook made when my chin and chest almost meet.

It was only with some reluctance that Duncan and I ventured out today, our first walk since Sunday night when the sky seemed so beautiful, Orion lazing on his back as he dipped into the west, Venus long since gone and the sky awash with innumerable nameless points of light. The day looked colder than it actually felt, but I was hurried and hacking, still weak and not at all invigorated by Duncan's tug down the path. Still, once we settled into the spot on the edge of the lake where we can watch the ducks and listen to the geese mimic the occasional pounding of my lungs, I felt invigorated at the sight of him turning his face into the breeze, dry and cool, and only slightly French-fry-scented. He closed his eyes and smiled and for those few seconds I remembered what it was like to be well and to love the feel of the world around me.

Rat Dogs & Fluff

I am not a lover of all dogs. Not by a long shot. I try, and every dog gets the benefit of the doubt, but sometimes even I have to draw the line. Take for instance The Shepherds who menaced us in the park last year, or The Hyenas who live right across the hall, an angry looking duo made up of a squat gray Dalmatian with red eyes, bowed fore legs and tall, wide shoulders, and her sister, a white Canaan, dwarfish and vaguely Shepherd-looking. Both growl and froth at the mouth each time they see or hear us coming, which is quite often. They moved in late last Spring and their companion––a man who is eerily friendly one moment and completely indifferent the next––and I have spent much of our walk time avoiding one another. They are the kind of dogs who squeeze their heads through the railings on their patio and begin yowling and foaming at the mere sight of anyone, or climb onto the low window sills to scratch and bark and smear the glass with spittle each time Duncan and I venture out late at night for one last bathroom stop. I've been told they're very friendly, but only after they establish dominance over every other dog they come in contact with. Needless to say, we steer clear.

More often than not, though, the troublemakers are the Rat Dogs and the small fluffy four-legged rugs who sniff and pull and yip excitedly. When we first moved here the complex seemed a big dog haven, with countless Boxers and Labs, a few Mastiffs, innumerable Goldens, even a Saint Bernard and a Great Dane. Now, however, I feel as though we've been invaded by rabid rodents and aggressive living things no bigger than the hairballs coughed up by my cats, toy poodles, Shiz-Zus and Chiuauas, Schnauzers, Pekingese, Maltese and Jack Russell Terriers, all whom strain toward us on their leashes as we pass, barking in the highest of pitches which echo and make a peaceful walk all but impossible. It is rare that a dog doesn't like Duncan and he loves almost every one we pass, but its become apparent that the big dogs, who are content to exchange butt-sniffs and begin the easy business of play are our friends, while The Rats and Fluff are not. They wear their Napoleonic Complexes of their collars and rush at us, jumping and lunging as though defying the laws of the universe which created them, eager to prove they are not just paper weights or dust mops imbued with precious life. They are angry little things and eager to share it and I am tired of watching my big-hearted wonderful dog get nipped at on the cheeks or throat as he attempts to maneuver around their insane and wicked dancing attacks.

Just this morning a woman somehow lost control of of her Dachsund, which chased after us, leapt into Duncan's face and nipped at his cheeks until he backed himself between my legs and hid behind me while I leaned down and scolded the obnoxious little brute. The woman, who was slow to approach us, actually seemed annoyed that I'd used my Grown Up Voice to reprimand her dog and stop him from attacking mine.

Obviously there are nice Rat and Fluff dogs out there, but it's been a very long time since we've encountered one on our walks, which only makes me work harder to remember that dogs are merely extensions of the time and love their human companions put into them.

Another lesson in patience, I guess. For both Dunc and me.

While Walking in Dreams

And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?

And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life? (Mary Oliver)

The grass is golden and tall, reaching nearly to my hip, and in some places where perhaps water has pooled and trickled through shallow channels, it rises even taller, to the middle of my chest, reaching with spindly fingers to the soft place just beneath my arms where it hopes to coax and tickle a smile from my lips. But I am not smiling, not entirely, only the smile of one who walks with his face pointed directly into the sun, squinted and necessary, almost uncomfortable were it not for the joy of the heat kissing my cheeks and lips. The sky is blue, cool and frosty, not Summerish in its delight, but tinted and artificial, distant, something that clings, like dust motes in the thick air of a tightly cluttered space. My hands are flat out at my sides and my passing stirs the long grass around me, the tall blades reach up to brush against the flat warm terrain of my palms, a map of valleys and canyons, wide plains, forgotten winding paths that end subtly, vanishing as the last song on an album fades further and deeper into silence. There is a soft wind, and although the field around me stirs and undulates, rising and falling in wide waves, there is no sound, just the sound of my feet on the earth and my breath in my ears. My pocket is heavy and deep with a few of the things I hold most precious. When I reach into it my fingers are able to discern the names of the things without pulling them free for my eyes to dance across: the sound of a flock of night-flying geese skimming the upper surface of a low cloud beneath which I stand, the silver shimmer of mist caught in low clumps of wet morning grass, the fat round face of a full moon peeking through the clouds on the eastern horizon, the spearmint and perfume scent of my grandmother's purse, a photo of Ken's shadow-dappled face taken on the bank of the river up Boulder Canyon, the color of my mother's yard under the Christmas lights, the rabid laughter of Kevi when she's on a roll and the gentle hmmmm of Ruth when she listens to me talk of fears and sadness, every word written by Mary Oliver, the steps of the kittens when they climb onto my back, turn in a circle and settle down in tight little balls between my shoulder blades. The other pocket is empty so there is plenty of room for the scent of the Linden and Russian Olive trees, the bounce of the road on my bike ride to work, the feeling of Ken's hand in mine, the bubbled laughter and songs of the children I may or may not get to have, shooting stars and the wishes bound to them. When my fingers fumble in all that empty space my pace quickens, the walk becomes a jog and then a crouching run and from somewhere close by I hear a steady rush, movement through the grass, which seems to whisper my location and give me away. I smile and run harder, one hand clutching the pocket, careful to keep the call of the geese safely tucked inside. I stumble but the grass catches me, is cool against my face, a thousand tiny fingers massaging my scalp, the back of my arms, stealing peeks down my collar. The rushing is close, coming faster and I give up crawling and hiding and roll onto my back, the blue of the air obscured by the gold of the grass, and then Duncan has found me, his tongue big and pink, his eyes brown and joyous as they push through the field, dragging the rest of him behind. He sees me, does that little leap of his where his front feet leave the ground for only a moment, as if dancing, and then falls onto my chest, the long red hair at his neck pushing into my face, his scent filling my nostrils, the cold of his nose a chill across my neck into my ear.

And as the dream ends I think, there are many things I want, and may even need, but for now I am content in the love of such a good dog.

Another Evolution

The world feels as though it is slowly greening up around me but having lived in Denver for the past nine and a half years I know better than to trust the weather. We folk on the edge of the Front Range have enjoyed seventy-degree temperatures for the past week, sitting out on the grass in our t-shirts and shorts, taking long lunches outside in the shade of our naked trees, biking to work. It has been a bittersweet heaven and there has been something almost rabid in our enjoyment of it because we know it will not last. A few months from now while the rest of the world is warming up and basking in the delicious golden glow of the sun we will be hunkered down under feet of snow and fierce winds desperately clinging to the memory of our brief January and February springtime.


Duncan and I have walked for hours and hours, across the park, where the shirtless boys have gathered at the skate park, showing off for the girls who snap their gum and twist their hair around their nervous fingers while they watch. Bees and fat hairy flies have suddenly appeared, flying recklessly, sometimes smacking right into us before bouncing away. The little birds practically scream their joy from the barren branches outside my windows, which sit open, wide and cool and fresh, filling my apartment with skittish hope. We have walked down Leawood, examining the dry hard patches which will soon overflow with flowers and clover and lavender and make nice little resting spots for the bunnies Duncan loves so much. Duncan and I are perfect companions for we both crave attention to detail nearly as much as air and water and sleep. We take our time, going slow, stopping to check in with each other and share in our discoveries. The world may be evolving around us, but we are in no hurry to reach a destination. After all, it's the journey that matters most, fair or foul weather.

I'm not sure how much longer we'll be here. Ken and I have decided we need to move to a smaller apartment in an effort to save money and although I hope we don't venture too far from where we live now, I'm not sure my windows will continue to overlook the park and lake we have explored and watched over in the dark months and have grown to love so deeply during the light ones. Duncan––who has spent the past two years memorizing the places where the bunnies roost and the trees where the squirrels squat and scream down at us––may have to coax the secrets from a whole new setting, and although it will be tiring and tedious work I'm sure he's up for the task. I've never known him to shy away from exploration. More often than not it's Dunc who has to guide me through the process. The world evolves and pushes on and as challenging as that can sometimes be I would grow quite bored if it didn't.

For now, though, we'll continue to do what we do, walking every morning and afternoon, taking our time along the low hedges and the the gnarled tree trunks along out path, paying special attention to the fattening moon in the afternoon sky and the dimpled edges where the craters seem to jut out beyond her edges. We will walk and breath in this deep woodsy and red-scented earth and witness the world change and change back again all around us, each step a memento of the journey we've made together and a promise of steps still to come.

"There is a grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed into a few forms or into one another; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved." (Charles Darwin, The Origin of Species)

A Halo at Thirty-Eight

Some days are better than others, that much is clear. Today––my birthday––was spent, not at a party and certainly not watching The Football Show, but with Duncan, celebrating in the quietest and most simple of ways, enjoying the sunshine both outside and in, alongside the cats, who found patches of light and curled up like golden gumdrops in the window sills, under the table, on pillows. It was not quite the day I'd hoped for, but in its own way it was perfect and complete, with patches of magic scattered throughout. And I was reminded that even on these less memorable days, when it seems the world has somehow forgotten us, or we have forgotten it, when adventure takes a back seat to chores, domesticity and the minutiae of every day life, there are halos if only we remember to look in the right places.

They are everywhere.

Something Happened

The wind on the edge of the foothills is not kind. Even in the Summer, when the air is hot and feels like a force pushing against each step you take, the wind will rise up, lash the clouds and blow searing dust and grass clippings into your face. But now, when my corner of the world is comprised of varying shades of yellow and gray, the wind is merciless. We have new snow, a dry pebbled kind of snow, each flake a chip of sharpened rock whittled into a fine razored and blood-hungry point and the wind loves nothing more than to toss it about, fling it with haphazard precision in every direction imaginable, so that even when I walk with my back to it, the crystals still find their way into my face and down my collar onto my neck and chest, defying all my careful zipping up and buttoning and scarf wrapping. It is a curious wind and wants to know every inch of me, its fingers reaching out and touching me all over as though to form a recognizable image on its blind eyes.

There is so little to love about this time of year. Color has been bleached from the world, taking with it all the joy and glory I worked so hard to stockpile last May. Walking and breathing are painful and only the sky––clearer than at any other time of the year––offers consolation, however distant and removed. I hate January, with its geese and their gummy green shit and the wind and bland skies, air devoid of even the most pleasant of scents, the brief days and endless nights, for my cold feet, aching back and dry skin.

After the sun had set and darkness had returned we ventured across the street to the park. On the far side of the baseball diamonds, we turned directly into the wind and Duncan's tail flapped above him in time to the flags mounted on the fences which lashed loudly in the wind over our heads. The snow crept over the sidewalk and rushed at us like clouds or waves and I had to turn my face down, shut my eyes and clench my teeth just to keep going. Duncan pulled on the leash, leading my through it, and with each step I found myself thinking, "How did I get here? How did this happen? This is not the life I imagined, water skiing behind a dog in blowing snow in some Denver suburb after working all day at a ridiculous job for embarrassingly incompetent students at a community college, all the while dreaming of flying and never quite getting my feet off the ground. Something must have happened. I must have been pushed because I would not have chosen this for all the world." The voice in my head sounded like the narrator of Joseph Heller's second novel Something Happened, a painfully relentless and unforgiving book about a man who sees absolutely no joy in his life and is not only unable to change it, but refuses even to acknowledge his responsibility in its outcome. It's the kind of book I urge people to read when they think they can't feel any worse. "There's rock-bottom," I say, "and then there's Something Happened."

Duncan led me to the long, wide soccer field which runs parallel to Bowles. A very crisp but fine layer of snow rushed across its surface, erasing my feet as I plodded through it, shoulders hunched, chin pressed against my throat. I dropped Duncan's leash and without a pause he darted away at a full run, threw himself into the wind, his head raised high, a smile pulled across his glowing face. He spun in the air, came down on his side and rolled right into the blowing snow, pulling it over him, robbing it of its bite. I watched, startled, as the world around him lit up. The snow became clouds and the dark stationary yellowed grass turned into a barely visible earth far-below, speeding beneath us as we soared overhead. The sky erupted with stars, first Venus, then Orion and then the myriad others whose names and shapes I don't know. I turned my face skyward and even though the night was dark, I caught sight of a large flock of geese flying high above the hill, turning only briefly toward the lake, then splintering into two groups who battled for supremacy over the other as they headed over the fields and across the street toward the golf course. They were high, their bodies buffeted by the wind, only their pale bellies visible, painted electric orange by the street lamps glowing beneath them. As they struggled and twisted, turning back on themselves and plummeting momentarily before finding their way again, they looked like burning cinders riding the currents of air as they floated and faded away. I caught my breath and watched long after they had gone, not even their voices catching in my ears. Duncan ran circles around me, his leash bouncing behind him, so I spread out my arms and ran after him, flying in my own way, chasing and being chased,

The truth is I am not as happy as I imagined, but who is? I am still happy. I am about to celebrate my thirteenth anniversary with Ken. We have four beautiful children, a safe home and memories and dreams we have built around one another. I do not have the job I want, but I am thankful to have a job, especially in these uneasy times. I am healthy and have good friends and a wonderful family and would wander aimless without them. I am earthbound, but my dreams are not, and my dog taught me tonight that running through the wind and snow can be more like flying than I ever would've thought possible. Something did happen, and even though it is January and there are no safe places to walk amid the goose droppings, I am thankful for every breath I take.

"I know at last what I want to be when I grow up.
When I grow up I want to be a little boy."
(Joseph Heller, Something Happened)

Blanket

It has been a rough couple of weeks. Now that school has started work has picked up and even though it's not true it feels as though most of my waking moments have been spent there, smiling at people who do not appreciate the hard work I have put in for their benefit, or the people who are sometimes downright hostile toward any effort made to help them. I am a person who has an almost ignorant belief in the innate goodness in people but the start of the school year always causes me to reconsider. There is something about the fear of being exposed to new ideas that really tends to bring out the worst in people. So I spend a few weeks at the start of each semester being the college's punching bag and absorbing far more negativity than I've earned, unless, of course, you believe in reincarnation, in which case I must have been a terrible person in a past life.

The high point of my day has been coming home to find Duncan waiting at the door for me, his back-end exuberantly swaying from side to side as he cups my wrist between his teeth and pulls me into the safety of our home. The sun has usually set by the time we venture across the street, but tonight we made it in time to witness the last of it leaving the sky, its rays almost a memory above the mountains. A soft and flowing line of clouds divided the sky in half, an uneven, thick, white racing stripe that meandered lazily back and forth; on one side the pale crumbs of the day, on the other, a deep star-speckled blue knitted by the softest, gentlest hands you've ever touched. Duncan led me around the park to the management offices where the bunnies herd up and I watched that night blanket fold itself over the world, slowly and softly, without a sound. Duncan pulled me up the hill where the sun's rays kissed his face and the fur at his chest one last time, and in that instant I felt the day wash away, felt the tension slipping from my back and neck and felt my faith in the goodness of the universe return just a little. An enormous flock of geese flew low around the base of Rebel Hill where we stood, their calls shattering my silence like nature's farts, but as I craned my neck back and turned to watch them pass overhead, I thought of the Mary Oliver poem and remembered that even the things we do not like have purpose in our lives:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

So I allowed the blanket to fall over me and as Duncan led me home I could not stop smiling, for the peace beneath it was exactly what I had earned.

Political Monday: One Last Thing

I was looking at the sky tonight on my walk with Duncan, my eyes moving back and forth between Venus and Orion, both clear and magnificent, beautiful beyond words, things I carry with me in my mind and heart throughout the day, but with the knowledge that they are so far away, so abstract and unattainable I will never be able to lay my hands on them. It was hot in Denver today, nearly 70˚ with a bright, wide sky and dark shadows behind the trees where the sun couldn't reach. What was left of our snow didn't last much beyond noon, but now that night has reclaimed our side of the world and the temperatures have dropped again, the runoff has turned into the sheerest layer of ice on the sidewalks and drives. It was difficult walking with my eyes focused so distantly, and only when Duncan and I slipped did I remember to look back at my feet to reclaim my balance.

I've been thinking a lot about the events of tomorrow. So many of us worked so hard last Fall to bring about the change which our country will embrace. It was a long road with many twists and turns, dangerous slippery spots and places where the path ahead was not exactly clear. But we prevailed, not only by looking at the faraway and abstract, as I did tonight, but at the ground directly beneath our feet. Things will not change overnight. We must proceed cautiously and vigilantly, with both a critical eye and an optimistic spirit.

There are things to remember as you witness tomorrow's historic inauguration. First––and I must confess this one is purely personal––Rick Warren is a son of a bitch who's words do not deserve to be heard. Barack's selection of this vile, hateful man is a painful slap in the face to the tens of thousands of gay people, such as myself, who dedicated time, money and effort to help win him this election. He claims that he's reaching out to those evangelicals who follow and respect Warren. I say that it was the first misstep of his presidency, one which cost him much of the respect he earned. The people he claims to be reaching out for are bigoted monsters who have institutionalized hatred and would sooner see me rotting in hell than extend an olive branch in my direction. If you know and love a single gay person do them a favor by turning off your television while he speaks, turning your back on his disingenuous compassion, and refuse to buy into his vitriol. Please, grant me this one favor and I'll ask nothing else of you.

Secondly, as we celebrate tomorrow and bask in the opulent show we must put on for ourselves as well as the rest of the world, it is important to remember that our economy is in a disastrous state, that thousands of people have lost their life savings, that banks are making money off the bailout, that men and women––real people––, however misguided, are taking their own lives because of their financial positions. People all across this country still do not have health care, are losing their jobs and homes, are being discriminated against, lack a quality education, can not afford food. If the people of this country could become as excited about these issues as they are about tomorrow's well-deserved show, we could eliminate these problems quickly. Please, answer the call to service by volunteering your time or money to a cause that matters deeply to you. Each of us must earn the reward we think we've been granted and honor those who have far less than the attendees of the galas and balls want to admit.

Finally, there is still much to do. In fact I would say the real work has not even begun. We, each of us, have a job to do, now more than ever. There are still wrongs which need to be righted, ugly things which need to be exposed and vanquished. It is not the sole responsibility of our new president to makes these changes; those tasks rest in each of our hands.

We are on a long walk and there are many wondrous sights to behold along the way, and no one is more excited than I am, but please don't forget that your feet belong on the ground while your eyes reach for the heavens.

Image courtesy of google images

Early and Replete

My alarm clock is a nasty little thing, bright green with a picture of Kermit the Frog sitting in a directors chair, and makes a noise unlike anything which occurs in nature, a high-pitched beeping screech which promises to wake the neighbors if left on too long. Unlike music on the radio or those Zen alarm clocks which play the sound of crickets or babbling mountain streams mine makes the sort of noise which is impossible to incorporate into a dream and is far too horrific for even the worst of nightmares. It was a Christmas gift from my mother in 1980 and for whatever reason I have relied on it ever since, taking it with me to college, on a trip to Canada, even here to Denver in high school, where I accidentally left it and paid to have the family who hosted several classmates and me send it to me overnight. I have been given other clocks, but have received none as true as Kermit, who refuses to offer the false promises of a snooze button and does not intrude upon my sleep with ominous glowing red or hospital-green numbers. No, mine suits me just fine and despite its horrific alarm, I love and treasure it. When it erupts from the dresser on the other side of the room, requiring me to jump out of bed and run to turn it off, Ken hides his head under the pillows while Duncan groans and the cats scatter down the hall into the dining room where they crouch and hide under the table like mice. It is a terrible way to wake up, really, but it gets the job done quickly, a bit like throwing oneself into a cold pool of water rather than tortuously dipping one toe in at a time.

I don't know exactly when it happened but some time shortly after graduating from college I became a morning person. I may not like it, but I'm damn good at faking it, and it doesn't hurt that I'm able to whistle my way through the entire process. I've often wondered what my neighbors think when Duncan and I make our 6:30 AM rounds, walking down the yard to the corner, then back up across the Linden-strewn meandering patch of grass between two of the buildings. I whistle the entire time, sometimes mimicking the little birds which flutter between the boughs of the pines, or calling back to the mourning doves who perch on the highest points of the buildings all around. I whistle songs everyone knows and some that come to me right there on the spot. I am not particular.

It has been a long week: work has been frustrating with the start of the new semester, Ken's schedule is still a mess and I've been worrying after one of my closest friends, who seems to be in the midst of a Job-like test of calamity and endurance. Kermit's call this morning was not welcome in the slightest, especially since I'd somehow convinced myself it was Saturday and it seemed absurd that I'd set him at all. When it finally sunk in that I had yet one more long day to make it through, that the weather had finally assumed a more January and less April-ish role, I sighed, plodded down the hall toward my office, whose tall wide window looks out on Bowles and across the street over the park to peek out on the bleary world.

I do not know why the sunrise this morning seemed so magnificent. I have watched it come up over Lake Michigan, which seems as big as an ocean. I have climbed high in the mountains and low in the deserts to witness it. I have stood on the deck of a ship in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico and watched it pull itself up, as Emily Dickinson said, "a ribbon at a time." I am quite certain there have been more spectacular mornings, but this one seemed especially glorious as though it was just for me. Duncan wasn't due up until after my shower, when the tea kettle calls him down the hall and out for our first walk. Quietly, so as not to disturb him, I pulled a pair of jeans on over my pajamas, threw on a henley and a flannel shirt just to be safe, found my gloves, cap and camera, zippered up my coat and squeezed out the door.

It was cold, as January mornings should be, and each breath was clean but sharp in my nose and down into my chest. The back of my neck, which had just been nestled among numerous blankets and nuzzled against by Olive, who slept on my pillow, seemed shockingly bare and extremely naked but alive in every way that a morning can make one feel alive. The grass was brittle as I strolled down the yard but the ground was soft beneath it and gave a little under my weight, like ice when it bounces and bends because it can't decide between being a liquid and a solid. Last night, when it was so delicious and warm, when Spring seemed so very near, I would've cringed at the thought of strolling in the near-dark on such a cold morning, breathing such painfully light air and hearing the kind of silence only heard in deep caves or at the bottom of the sea. Nothing could have made me purse my lips together and summon a tune, real or imagined. The morning was complete in its crisp quiet, it's mottled orange and purple sky, with the faint white trace of light on the darkened edges of the tree trunks and their innumerable nude branches. This was a January morning that forgives all others, that forgives unpleasant awakenings and offers sincere promises that the rest of the day can not help but be just as abundant in its simplicity and subtlety.

For what human ill does not dawn seem to be an alleviation?
(Thornton Wilder)

Only Venus

It was an April day today, bright and sunny with dark shadows falling on the grass, which still believes––rightly, so––that it is early January on the edge of The Rockies. I spent most of the day at my dark little desk in the far corner of the bookstore dreaming of walking with Duncan while the sun was still high and the air a surprisingly warm sixty-six degrees. It was not meant to be, of course, as it was dark and cool by the time I arrived home. The sun had left a faint smear of itself on the western horizon, an orange fingerprint hovering above the mountain shadows for an hour or so before even it finally melted away.

But it was still warm for a January night and there seemed to be a sense of celebration in the air, accompanied by the summer scent of steaks on the grill and the far away sound of passing music drifting out of some open car window. We leashed up and with only the slightest amount of regret at not having the sense to fake a sudden bout of stomach flu in order to spend the afternoon playing outside, we turned away from the goose-trodden park and walked down Leawood toward the elementary school where Duncan loves to run back and forth across the soccer field. I have lived in many neighborhoods here in sunny Denverland, including Stapleton, which, at one time, was the place to live, but none have offered the same sort of warm welcome as the familiar-ish homes on Leawood. They remind me of the street where I grew up in Pocatello, and the houses where my friends lived and played. It is not often we get down that way in the winter months so tonight seemed the perfect night to take an extended stroll with Duncan marching ahead of me, his eyes trained on the shadows for a glimpse of the ever present crouching rabbits which linger on the edge of the sidewalks and huddle among the shrubs in the brittle, amber flowerbeds.

There was no sun, but there was Venus, high above in the south, traipsing gently westward, Orion rising slowly at her back. She was bright and vibrant, unwavering, unblinking with beauty as surprising as the day was warm. She was the only star in the sky and once the others had blinked awake, the brightest. While Duncan nosed around the mailboxes and lawn ornaments, I could not take my eyes off her, and wondered for a moment why the sun had seemed so important when Venus was out, offering clarity and calm, the kind I crave so often throughout the day and look forward to on my nightly walks. There was something familiar about her, close and warm and I wished every night could be like this night, with the heavens open and welcome, a warm hand on a cold forehead, a promise that clear winter nights can be as magnificent as any summer day.

Image courtesy of www.nasa.gov

Answers

I recently had the honor of being interviewed by Jonathan Baker at Petdoc.com, a quality website for pet companions who seek answers to questions, guidance about which pet may be best suited for their lifestyle, as well as health and grooming tips. Their contributors are well-educated and are available to tackle all sorts of topics, from "medical issues, behavioral issues or the day-to-day care of owning a pet." Petdoc is a user-friendly site that can provide you a wealth of information that is not readily available and easily accessed elsewhere. Please check them out.

And be sure to read the interview here.

The Gaggle

We have heard them in the night, on our last late walks, when the traffic on Bowles has ceased and the lights in the apartment complex wink out as we pass beneath them. We heard them last night over the snow, gathering in the golf course behind us, their voices loud and disrespectful of the deep, warm dreaming occurring all around them. Night snow has a way of hushing the world even as it amplifies every sound––the bending of a blade of grass under its soft icy weight, the gentle whisper of cloudy flakes rushing like exhaled breath over the empty and naked streets, the mingling crystalline jangle of ice settling in the pine needles––and their voices were almost a roar in the stillness, their heavy beating wings a ridiculous chant hidden just above and around us in the blowing mist. We know they were coming and Duncan is waiting for them, waiting to drive them from one edge of the park to the next, waiting to pull me behind him as he lunges through the drifts, against the wind, tireless in his pursuit.

It will be a long hunt, but the light is finally on our side.