Pay It Forward

Today is Pay it Forward Day. If you're unfamiliar with the concept what that means is that you go out into the world and do three random good deeds for perfect strangers while encouraging them to do the same as "payment" for your generosity. Not only does it benefit the person receiving your good will, it also fosters a stronger sense of community and connectedness. The deeds can be anything, large or small. The first time I received a Pay it Forward gift was at a toll booth in Chicago when I was informed that the person in the car in front of me had paid my toll. I was so touched that from that point on I always paid for the car behind me. That one simple gesture spawned years of gratitude returned to others.

Here are the three things I did today:

First, through Facebook I learned about a friend of a friend, a good woman who through no fault of her own (if we're looking to blame anyone we can blame the health care industry!) is on the verge of losing the home she has lived in for twenty years. The single mother of a nine year old son, she has struggled to stay ahead, but because of a car accident her insurance company refused to cover, has fallen behind. Having no other place to turn she used Facebook as a resource, asking if 100 people could donate $45 to help her stop foreclosure on her home. You can read more about her story here. Even though I struggle myself I decided that even I could spare the money and support her cause. I urge each of you to do the same. You don't have to donate $45, but any amount would be greatly appreciated.

Second, I stopped by Hero's Pets, my home away from home, and told Kathy, Chelsea's mother, that I wanted to buy the next person in line's food, explaining that she needed to tell them that they were the recipient of a Pay It Forward gift. Not long thereafter a woman who's dog was ill approached the counter with three cans of a special diet formula and a bottle of tummy tamer. Kathy explained that she owed nothing and had only to do three good deeds for other people in payment. The woman had no idea I was responsible but she was incredibly grateful and couldn't stop thanking Kathy for the gift, promising to play her part in the process.

Third, while at the park with Duncan, we stopped by Starbucks where I purchased a gift card for $10. When the clerk handed it back to me I told him to keep it and give it to the next person in line, telling them that they needed to do something kind for three other people. As I explained it to him, his face lit up and I could see his mind racing. I didn't buy a drink but simply left the store and walked Duncan down to the place where the bunnies roost and watched his little leg quiver with anticipation at the sight of them.

These were simple things and incredibly easy to do. And after I completed each I walked away feeling proud of myself and happy to live in a world where such concepts exist. A free latte does not change anyone's life, but it can change how people look at each other and, hopefully, bring about a change that even I cannot imagine.

You can play Pay it Forward any day, not just April 29th. If you've come to this blog the day or week or month after, it's not too late to take part in the movement. What change can your small gesture bring about? Tell me what will you do when you're done reading?

Crime and Punishment

Despite the fact that nearly all of them have had their limbs removed, and most lack faces, Duncan is quite gentle with his toys. I keep a drawer full of them, a sort of asylum for friends loved nearly to death, and switch them out every few weeks so that he doesn't get bored and restless. But when I wait too long he wastes no time in letting me know that the time has come to mix things up.

Percy, the first of his friends whose name did not start with a "B," joined our clan a few months back and quickly became a favorite. A terrycloth penguin with a bright yellow beak, eyelid-soft wings and two awkward little feet, Percy went wherever Roo went, and whenever he wasn't being tenderly carried back and forth across the apartment in Duncan's mouth, he was tucked protectively under a paw where he received a nearly constant bath. And because he was vaguely football-shaped I enjoyed him because he could be thrown with a nice spin, black and white whirling through the air hypnotically. Each night Dunc took him to bed, pulling his blanket over him to keep him safe and warm and each morning it became more and more difficult to take Percy away and put him up until I returned from work.

I don't know why exactly he fell out of favor but this evening after our walk, while I tended first to Facebook, then to dinner and a small glass of wine, Duncan made it perfectly clear that Percy had somehow offended and needed to be relocated into the witness protection program, replaced by Leon, the plush fuzzy red bone our friend Nik sent to us. I discovered the hapless penguin dismembered on the floor not far from the water dish, his wings and flappy feet forcibly removed from his body and missing entirely, his belly torn open, stuffing spilling out onto the carpet like cottage cheese. I quickly re-stuffed him and placed him on a high shelf where he will be safe until I can sew him up and tuck him into the asylum for a few months, at least until Dunc has forgiven him his crimes.

Until then he has Bah-Bah, his legless lamb, and Leon to see him through. Here's hoping no further infractions have been committed and Duncan won't be preoccupied with punishing the conspirators.

Moon and Glass

The moon is a crescent and the stars are hardly visible behind the light foggy clouds which have hovered over us all day. The night is low and our walk was a quiet one. For such a cold day the air was surprisingly warm and smelled sweet, like the new white flowers appearing in thick, popcorn clumps on the trees.

Duncan was restless but I was aimless, meandering wherever he led, alternately watching my feet strike the pavement or looking up at the sky for a quick glimpse of our fickle moon, pointed on both ends and as sharp as a cartoon smile.

I have been feeling lonely and have noticed I have been distancing myself from my friends, content instead to come home and lay on the bed with the cats curled around me while Duncan gnaws on a tennis ball at my feet. I've been making dinner late and falling asleep on the couch, the windows and patio door forgotten and left open, waking only after I was so cold I had no choice but to get up and crawl under the covers in bed for the last hour of the night. Philip Glass' "Mad Rush" has been on a nearly constant loop, the piano notes rising and falling, the repetition as soothing as balm. I have not been sad, just living alone and making one long note of it.

And so tonight, on our last walk, while Duncan watched for rabbits, I watched for the moon, and when she finally peeked out, along with a single star, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be guided by Roo, the rhythm of our steps a soft voice saying, "This way, this way, this way." I made a wish, softly, under my breath so that not even Duncan heard it. But the smiling moon must have and a moment later there was a whoosh above our heads as an enormous owl swept down low, perhaps only fifteen feet above us, the soft white of its chest illuminated and clear, each feather a thing of crystalline beauty. It alighted at the top of a pine like a dark Christmas star and swiveled its head all the way around to watch us and perhaps a mouse scuttling through the newly green grass.

A moment later my eye caught the shape of something else, something moving across the low night sky toward us, something slow and dark, round and glimmering at its edge, a rain cloud bearing a silver lining. It danced around a building, slowed and hovered above us for just a moment before finally sinking downward, landing soundless and bounceless at my feet. I bent forward and picked up a silver foil balloon with the words "Happy birthday" written across its shimmering surface.

The moon rarely sends us messages when wished upon and when it does we should not ask questions Today is not my birthday but I think I know what it means. And it makes Philip Glass sound less lonely.

Gobi

The morning after our snowfall last week there was not a car or road or building in Denver that was not covered in a thick rain-dappled red dust. Although it has dried my windows still bear the marks, as though someone doused us with cocoa powder.

It seems that while we slept the clouds moved in and opened up, spilling a muddy rain down upon the Front Range. After the temperatures dropped the snow began to fall and only after it melted did we see what the rain had delivered all the way from Asia. A windstorm in Mongolia had pulled sand from the Gobi desert high into the atmosphere, carrying it across the Pacific, over the western United States to the Rocky Mountains, were it finally was released.

Duncan and I have walked many miles in the days since, and while we have not left the city I cannot help but marvel that in a strange way our path has taken us across the sands of the Gobi. We have breathed it in and carried it with us up our three flights of stairs, tracking it across the tile in the doorway, all without trying very hard at all. But that sand has traveled high and far to find us and douse us like pixie dust. Whose footsteps were imprinted upon before ours? How long did it blow across Asia before settling here and what has it seen on its strange pilgrimage?

How odd to be reminded once again, in such a bizarre way, that it's not the destination but the journey that matters most.

A Change in the Weather

It's never easy to tell here in The Rockies––and I certainly don't want to jump the gun––but I think Spring may be dipping its toes in the DenverLand pool. It's never easy to tell as March and April are typically our snowiest months, and the flowers don't really bloom until mid to late May. Several years ago on my birthday (February 1st), Mom and Kevin came down from Idaho to visit. We awoke to a spectacular morning and spent the day at the zoo with the temperatures firmly resting in the low 80s. The next morning, though, we had a terrific blizzard. and they had to leave a day earlier than planned. It's par for the course here and while we relish our occasional warm winter blessings, we also view Spring with a cautious and suspicious eye. After all, Colorado is where we golf in January and ski until June.

For instance, even though Tuesday night was warm with a luscious breeze drifting through the windows, we awoke Wednesday morning to four inches of snow. Duncan was overjoyed, rolling and playing in the stuff while I scraped the windows and pushed heavy pounds of it off my car. The skies were low and white and the snow was thick and blinding. Walking through it was bitter and wet and we were both soaked within minutes. I left for work and spent the day in my windowless office dreading the long drive home, but by the time I stepped outside at 5 PM, the sun was out, the snow was completely gone and three little dandelions had sprung up along the edge of the sidewalk. While the mountains were still white, the skies were smooth and blue and the air smelled sweet and rich.

Duncan was waiting for me in the window, his tail wagging, a wide grin spread across his face. When we ventured outside he pranced and danced and pulled me across the greening grass to each of the trees, where small buds were beginning to appear. He was proud, as though he'd somehow arranged it himself as a gift for me. So we went to the park, where the ground was dry but still springy and soft and returned Roo's tennis ball with a satisfying and solid bounce. The lake, which had been cloudy and turbulent only that morning was smooth and clear and covered with a battalion of scrawny, squawking gulls and fat pelicans so big they looked like paddle boats. The little birds had invaded the trees and were content darting from green bud to green bud, chirping with each hop. It was miraculous and exactly what my spirit needed after a winter that began three weeks before Halloween. We grilled tilapia outside and slept with the windows open, the cool, candied air greeting us in the morning when we woke.

I am not convinced but remain hopeful.

Morning Mischief Managed

Perhaps because I never saw my basket of yarn as anything other than benevolent until it turned on me and almost destroyed my dog, I now look at every object I own with a suspicious eye. What if the couch––solid and immovable––were to suddenly tip under the soft weight of Winnie and fall back and crush the children in one, quick blow? What if I left the stove on and cooked every animal and beloved object not only in my apartment but the entire building? Or what if I didn't make the bed and the cats crawled under the covers and, trapped by a maze of twisted blankets and a wall of pillows, suffocated, their plaintive cries unheard by the only person who could save them? It's absurd (and more than a bit of an exaggeration, I might add!) but after the skein of red yarn I bought for a scarf intended for my sister ended up in Duncan's intestines, let's just say I'm cautious.

That's why every morning, after making my tea and preparing my five fruit breakfast, I take all of Duncan's toys––Percy, his penguin, the Bah-Bah, the Birdy, Buddy and the Baby, and perch them atop my DVD shelf where he can't get to them, rip them open and choke on their fluffy innards. He doesn't like it one bit and upon my arrival home in the evening,  insists emphatically that they all immediately be returned to the ground where he can play with and terrorize them. I leave only the tennis balls for him to play with, while I'm gone and perhaps, if he's very sly, a stray kiwi.

This morning after tending to my rituals I went in search of the toys and discovered that Duncan had taken action while I showered, spending that valuable time hiding his little, armless and legless, and sometimes faceless friends, all over the apartment. Percy was tucked away on his pillow, nestled down between the blanket Chelsea gave him for Christmas and the throw mom knitted for him. If it hadn't been for Percy's bright yellow beak I may not have noticed him at all. The blue bone was concealed in Winnie's fort, an old shoe box I keep under an end table where she hides for hours, peeking up slowly and carefully so that just the green of her big eyes are visible. Buddy was stashed between the bed and the window, down among the blankets where it would've been all too easy to miss him. After a careful search of the entire apartment I'd rounded everyone up except Bah-Bah, who remained unaccounted for. Duncan ate his breakfast, indifferent to my search, or so it seemed, until I returned to the bedroom to find him curled up on the bed, the mangled lamb tucked under one paw while he received a very attentive and thorough bath.

He was not happy when I took him away and placed him up on the tower with the rest of them. He sighed loudly, harumphed and wouldn't look at me when I left. I'll make it up to him and stop by Hero's for a bully stick before I come home.

It's the time away from home that alarms me. He and the cats have all day to plot and plan and I'm beginning to doubt I'm smart enough to keep up with them.

While Watching the World

My dog knows me well. Ken recently told me that bringing Duncan into our lives was perhaps the best thing he contributed to our relationship. It's not true, of course--not by far--but it is one of the best things he did. Duncan was meant for him, but our bond formed quickly and easily, as though we'd known each other all our lives, and now we are inseparable. When I come after a long day, the door opens to the melody of his chirp, the soft drumming of his tail, and his unbound joy at the sight of me, as though I have been gone for months or years, and as I bend down to greet him I always ask, "How is my best friend? How was your day?" Quite often he reaches for my wrist and pulls me inside, first to the couch where I deposit my bags, and then to the bedroom where I kick off my shoes and lay back against the pillows. He jumps up next to me and we wrestle for a minute before he pulls me up again and leads me back to the door so we can venture outside.

Yesterday was another dreary wet March day in Denverland and as tired as I was I was not exactly looking forward to marching through the puddles, my hood pulled down low over my head, rain and snow dripping down my glasses, while Duncan splashed and played in the water. I craved silence the way I occasionally crave brie and when that door opened Duncan seemed to know it. There was no chirping, but a soft, empathetic hum in his throat, a gentle pressure as he leaned against me and ran his body along my calf like a cat. And then he pulled me into the bedroom, jumped on the bed and looked contentedly out the window at the gloom and murk, his tail strumming the comforter like an invitation to join him. I collapsed beside him and together we laid for a long time, listening to the drip of the water off the roof, the hush of snow beneath low clouds, the ticking of the clock and the soft hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. There was no desperation to walk, only a quiet wish to rest a moment together, to share in the stillness of the fading day and watch the evening come on, sulking but with a heavy calm.

At one point Pip joined us, crawling up the line of my legs and nestling between my shoulder blades, tucking his head down low against my cheek and ear, purring and gently––without too much pressure––kneading his paws against my back.

The three of us––The Boys–– in harmony, watching the world without a care in it.

"One of Those March Days"

"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade." (Charles Dickens)

Tuesday's snow is melting, slowly by Denver standards, but it is melting nonetheless. The trees have taken a beating and I spent much of our time walking yesterday and this morning grabbing their bowed and sagging branches and shaking them furiously, loosening the snow, rejoicing in the cold of it as it slid off the bare sad, naked and powdered down around us. Duncan was indifferent to my toils, simply accepting winter as it is, celebrating it for its beauty and stepping through its disaster with grace and his dog-like assurance that things are unfolding, no doubt, as they should.

And when the spirit moved him, as it often does, he simply rolled over in the thick, wet muck and rolled around, creating angels where it's all too easy for my Summer-centric eyes to see only demons.

"A Revolution of Snow"

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.
(from Snow Day, by Billy Collins)

It snowed all night and is snowing still, but more as an afterthought, flakes that are minuscule and nearly forgotten as they waft through the air, like motes in a sunny window. They are kind to the face and eyes, and do not sting or pinken the cheeks even, but seem somehow to remind me that I am alive, that mornings like this––trudging loudly, breathing heavily under the weight of the snow––are beautiful also, even though my heart is a late-Spring heart and my spirit is firmly married to summer. There are gifts to be found in the snow, in the silence and the wet suck of the cars cutting through the granite-colored slush. There is goodness in the cool of the air on my open throat or the back of my neck, and profound appreciation for the warmth of my gloves and socks, which always seem to turn sideways upon themselves in the unreachable depths of my boots.

And then there is Duncan, the greatest gift of all. I cannot help but marvel at his wonder and exhilaration, watching him run and play as he does, stopping every now and then to pick the snowballs out from under the rough pads of his feet before resuming his tireless celebration. Together we crawl into the snow caves made by the sunken, covered boughs of the trees. He enters cautiously, unsure of what he'll find, but something in there, the blue-white light perhaps, or the discovery of a place entirely his own, causes his heart to leap up strong so that he runs circles, in and out, back and forth, weaving among the boughs, knocking the snow this way and that until eventually the cave is not a cave but simply another low spot among the trees. No bother, though. There are other places to explore and the memory of this day will sustain him through the long summer months, just as the memory of his delight will sustain me throughout my life.

We cast no shadows on days like this, and all the light in the world seems to come from within.

Suddenly

It was quick, this springtime storm, lulling us with heavy, sleepy clouds that rolled down out of the northwestern mountains, bringing with them a soft patter of afternoon rain, which barely dusted the slowly greening grass. The thunder pulled the thick wet smell of earth out of the ground and as I left work I didn't know if I should believe the reports of the impending blizzard headed our way.

Thirty-nine minutes later as I pulled into my parking space, Duncan standing on the windowsill three stories above watching me gather my things and scurry inside, nearly three inches had fallen and the world was a complete whiteout. The last time I'd seen that much snow fall so quickly had been almost exactly a year earlier when we'd first moved to this apartment. My windows were quickly freezing over but it didn't matter, there was not much to look out upon. Brady's apartment, not one hundred feet away, was obscured completely from view, erased by a sheet of undulating, swirling white. Winnie sat atop a bookshelf watching her brother bat at the large white flakes as they swept past the screen outside. Cars slipped and slid through the lot below, the snow breaking loudly beneath their tires, a sound barely heard over the wall-shaking wind.

Duncan, like me, has his habits, and the most important one is his immediate need upon my arrival to go outside to tend to business. I changed clothes, donned my heavy coat, a hoodie under that, a cap, and my big boots. He pranced in the door while we leashed up, and then pulled me down the stairs and into the storm. I took him to the side of the building where the wind was weakest, but still fierce, and watched him charge circles among the trees that grow amid the natural bowl in the earth.


I huddled under a tree, my glasses, silly and useless on my face, collecting water which dripped down my cheeks. Duncan spun circles, dove head first, snapped at the flakes, barked at the sky, but did not tend to the task at hand. So after twenty miserable minutes of begging, of shaking the green doggy bag in his face even as I shook the snow and ice from mine, I gave up and brought him inside, where we dried off with the thick white towels I keep in the linen closet for exactly this sort of occasion.

After we were dry and a pot of tea was coming to a boil on the stove, Duncan and I stood in the window looking out over the golf course and the narrow creek which runs between it and The Run. In the moments between rattling gusts of wind, when it seemed we were alone with only our breathing and the ticking of the clock in the bedroom, a brief but vast silence claimed the apartment, and it seemed as if the world had come to a standstill, waiting. And then, with the next gust and rattle, we were reminded that here, at this time of year, there is no such thing. We are reminded often. And suddenly.

Three Kiwis

I am a creature of habit and know my habits well, using each to pull me through the morning, out the door and through the long drive across Denver. For instance, every morning I put together a breakfast of five fruits. On Sunday nights I cut up a fresh pineapple and each morning throughout the rest of the week mix it with strawberries, mandarin oranges, sliced bananas and kiwi. The kiwi, furry and rough, is the last thing I do, carefully rinsing them until their skin is soft and comes off under my knife like shaved cardboard. The fruit, bright and green, drips down between my fingers, over the palm of my hand and into the sink. Duncan watches me, and sometimes if he's lucky, receives a bite of strawberry or a tossed sliver of banana.

This morning I thought I would take my friend Lisa a kiwi since she loves them and doesn't have them nearly as often as she'd like. While Duncan, curled up on the couch, watched and waited for his own breakfast, I packed my lunch bag, set it on the coffee table next to my mug of tea and my computer case, and set a single kiwi next to them before returning to my bedroom to pull the blinds and open the window a crack. When I returned the kiwi was gone. I looked around, got down on all fours even and peered under the table, along the edge of the sofa but found nothing.

Perhaps, I though, I'd imagined doing it so well I'd skipped actually setting the kiwi down. I grabbed another, placed it on the table and slipped into the bathroom to put in my contacts before mixing Roo's food. When I returned the kiwi was gone. I looked around, glanced at Roo, still curled up on the edge of the couch watching me patiently. The cats had already claimed their spots on the carpet in the morning sun, their eyes half closed, their tails fluttering at the very tips without any discernible rhythm. Pip's paws clenched and unclenched as he kneaded the air. Olive rolled onto her back, exposing the vast white expanse of her belly and cooed softly as if attempting to lull me down next to her.

I placed a third kiwi on the table and moved into the kitchen. Duncan climbed down off the couch, stretched and followed me, taking up his usual spot where he could watch me mix and sprinkle, talking to him in my Julia Child falsetto voice. "First we mash up the meat with the spoon, being careful to break it into little chunks, then we add a dash of Optagest--num!--and top it off with a healthy spoonful of glucosamine. Smells like fish. Mmmmmm."

Once his breakfast was complete I came around the counter to his little food table and set it down where I saw, nestled back in the corner between the bookshelves, two kiwis resting among two bright green tennis balls.

"Well look what we have here," I smiled. Dunc bowed his head, wagged his tail, opened his mouth and dropped the third kiwi onto the floor with a soft thud. It bounced once and rolled awkwardly to join the others in the strange little pile. They were unharmed and remarkably slobber-free and as much as I wanted to let him have them I wanted them more. He can have his tennis balls and fancy food. I'll keep my habits and my kiwis.

Flight

There was a point in the day, before the clouds dropped down low trapping the geese between the earth and the sky, turning their calls into hollow, reverberating echoes, when the sky was nearly perfectly blue and clear and even my light hoodie made me feel too warm. I took Duncan, who has had a rough weekend with a bad belly, out into the warmth of the day to roll in the snow, which is heavy and only a sunny afternoon away from slush. It seemed to cheer him, and watching him play and stretch and forget our frequent late night trips out to tend to his business cheered me. The whole of Littleton seemed happy with our weather and good fortune and even the hawks, which nest in the tall cottonwoods dividing The Run from the golf course, were moved and urged to take flight. As Duncan and I trudged down the length of The Run their calls stopped us in our tracks. Duncan, rarely distracted from the snow, craned his head all the back and watched the two large birds circle overhead, barely flapping their wings as they rose and rose and then glided back and forth, their shadows dark on the white snow as they sped past our feet and then across the trunks of the trees before leaping up the side of the building and out of sight. They danced in the air for a long time and Roo did not take his eyes off them for a moment.

I could not help but wonder if he too felt the jealousy of their flight and how marvelous it would be to soar with him above the park and the lake, the red of him burning across the blue sky, trundling through the clouds, leaving no footprints, a wake of vapor expanding out behind us like dandelions caught on a breeze.

A Reason to Dance

The first day at a new job is a lot like the first day of school as a kid, with restless sleep the night before and a mind racing with all sorts of questions. I have not felt this way in a long time and although it wasn't entirely pleasant it was a reminder that I am alive, that life is ever-evolving and that some challenges are worth the fear and anxiety.

I did not sleep much last night, so I stayed up, pressed my shirt and pants--something I never do!--and paced until nearly 1 A.M. when I was good and exhausted and my pillow seemed like the best friend anyone could ask for. When the alarm went off at 6, three hours before I was supposed to report to work, I jumped up, fed the kids, took my shower and was ready to leave a half hour later. Duncan stayed on his big fluffy pillow at the foot of my bed until I decided it was time to go for a nice long relaxing walk.

It couldn't have gone more wrong. Aside from the fact that it was 3˚ outside and last night's snow was deep and heavy we also ran into two squirrels who caught us by surprise. I suppose they'd been huddling under one of the bushes Duncan prances through and that his sudden appearance caught them by surprise. They scattered, one up the closest tree and the other straight up a brick wall, but not before flitting and screaming all around his face. He snapped at the sudden flurry of tails and fur presented to him, but missed them entirely. I scrambled to put his leash back on and drag him away but only managed to slip and fall in the snow, wet but thankful my first day hadn't been spent at the vet.

Thankfully Duncan tended to business shortly thereafter, but by the time we returned home I discovered my keys were missing. I had plenty of blueberry pumpkin treats and poop bags but nothing resembling anything that would open the door and let me in my apartment. So back down the stairs we went on the long trek through The Run to the site of The Great and Sudden Squirrel Debacle, which is where I assumed / hoped the keys had fallen. Thankfully they were quickly located and we returned home nearly unscathed and partially dry.

After that it was the long drive across Denver, a day full of new and exciting people, lots of information and then the long drive back during a gorgeous sunset I'm grateful I didn't miss. And of course, waiting for me when I got home, was a happy dog, thankful to see me, more than willing to celebrate with his papa. It was something I'd looked forward to all day, kisses and hugs and dancing through The Glen like we haven't danced in a long time.

Monday Coming

If you were to ask my mother she would tell you I am notoriously bad at change. My friends would tell you the same thing. And while they wouldn't be exaggerating, I don't quite agree as much as I once did. This past year has been full of changes and while I am the first to admit it hasn't always been easy, I would insist I've come out far better than many would've expected.

Monday I begin my first day at a new job. I have spent the past eight and a half years working in the bookstore at Arapahoe Community College in a job that was not exactly what I would call Curt-like. Quite often I wondered what heinous atrocity I'd committed in a past life that had earned me such a difficult and relentless punishment. But even though I loathed much of what I did there I grew fond of the people I worked with, somehow tolerated the smells coming from the cafeteria on the other side of the wall, and found a way to avoid prison time for reprisals against the laziest and most ignorant students I've ever had the displeasure of associating with. It was a grueling experience but last Wednesday as I left the building I couldn't help but wax sentimental. Yes, the people I worked with were truly a remarkable group and I will miss them terribly.

I will also miss the drive. The college was a mere seven minutes away from my home, except during snow storms when the drive could stretch into an hour long crawl. My new job is roughly forty-five minutes away, but it's a drive I did for six years before Ken and I moved to Littleton to be closer to our jobs. I know it well. But that extra hour and a half in the car each day will be time I don't get to spend at home with Roo and the cats, walking the park, chasing the geese, cuddling on the couch.

So I've been enjoying my time playing in the snow, watching Duncan tend to the busy work of being a dog. It can not be easy--all that unconditional love, the limitless enthusiasm, the tireless excitement of discovery and rediscovery. I am in awe of him, and tomorrow as I wind my way across Denver through the still-falling snow, I will relish the thought that he will be home waiting for me, ready to clock in and go to work.

Winter Awakening

I have been waking up early, jerking in my bed and bolting upright to see the light coming in the windows above me. Despite taking a long weekend before starting my new job on Monday my body is still in work mode and I have been unable to sleep in as much I'd hoped. Once the cats have scattered Duncan begins his soft whine, nudging the foot I hang off the side of the bed, tapping his cold nose to the warm valley between my toes.

It has been snowing and there is much running and sliding and celebrating to attend to. I, of course, am not quite as eager to venture out, especially since bed is so warm and my dreams have been so heavy. But he is a patient friend and very generous, so while I put on the hot water for my tea and feed the cats, he lays on the bed and waits for me, listening as I pad from one room to another, content to watch the snow come down, sometimes touching his nose to the window in hopes of catching a tumbling flake as it brushes past the glass. If he minds he says nothing so long as I bring my tea back to bed and sit alongside him, cradling my mug in my lap, breathing in the rich licorice mint scent, running one hand along his ribs. Sometimes I can coax him back to sleep while the cats wait for me, their warm pillow, to follow suit. Sometimes early morning naps are better than walks.

Sliding

The October snow on the north side of the buildings has not melted. Occasionally it has turned slushy but the drop in the overnight temperatures quickly turns it into long, narrow streams of ice, treacherous and tricky to walk on. Even Duncan, usually majestic as he bounds down The Run, has slipped and skidded off balance.

As usual he could hardly contain his excitement this morning when he awoke to discover a white world, powdery and light, perfect for rolling in, for turning on his side and pushing himself down the hill like the shaggy red sled he imagines himself to be. I am not fond of winter and see little use for snow after the holidays, but it brings my dog such tremendous joy that even I can be coaxed into a snow angel or two, or even sliding on my back over Duncan's trails.

At the End of the Day

At the end of the day, my last at the job I have had for the past eight and a half years, after bittersweet farewells, hugs and handshakes, kindnesses often unexpected and sometimes undeserved, I managed to come home, my body and brain aflutter with the realization that my life, changed so much over the course of the past year, is about to change once again. On Monday I will drive a new route to work, I will meet new people and struggle as I always do to remember their names and learn to talk with them. But until then, at the end of this day, there is the sweet homecoming to Duncan and the cats.

Roo was sitting in the window. Olive and Pip were in front of the door while Winnie, perched on the back of the couch, presided from above. When I came in I was carrying my loot of cards and gift certificates, my tea mug and lunch bag, a paper plate of cake leftover from the going away party. They waited for me to unload my arms and then it seemed each of them took turns sliding up to me, running the length of their bodies along my calf, standing upright, resting their paws on my shin, or in Duncan's case on my hips. They mewed and whined, tails upright and straight, as though aligned with some celestial point far overhead, each smiling as I rubbed their chins and scratched behind their papery ears.

And at the end of the day, tired and moved, all I wanted to do was lay down on the couch, the lights soft and dim, and be loved and comforted, congratulated and praised as only these friends know how.

Purpose

I awoke to a gray sky peeking in my window this morning. Duncan was curled next to me, his chin resting comfortably on my feet, one paw draped over my leg. I was slow to rouse, blinking away the sleep and dreams, warm under my comforter and snug with the cats curled against my chest. Dunc yawned and stretched his legs out far before him, rolled onto his belly and pushed himself up, wobbly and unsteady as his weight stirred the mattress, causing the springs to groan as he jumped down onto the warm carpet. He did his morning yoga, leaning far forward into downward dog, then coming up, arching his back and craning his head into the cobra.

I peeked through the vertical blinds and saw it was snowing, soft small flakes brushing past the window. I shook my head and sat up, scattering the cats as I dropped my feet to the floor. Duncan brushed against me, his cold nose on my naked calf raising goosebumps across my body. I shook my head as I pulled on my socks and jeans, telling him, "If it weren't for you, Roo, the snow would never touch Papa."

There are two things I have no use for: football and snow, and it just so happened that today was a day for both. We walked this morning, me tight and huddled up into myself, Duncan joyous and grinning as the flakes alighted on his face, bleaching his eyebrows and long snout. We walked again this afternoon while the laundry spun. And again tonight while the rest of the world sat transfixed before their televisions.

It was a quiet night and the snow continued to fall as we moved through the darkness and down the street, the soft crunch of it beneath our feet the only sound. There were no cars out and in the silence I couldn't help but feel as though it was Christmas Eve, when my hometown shuts down and no one ventures out. The snow was still coming in flakes that could hardly be called flakes. I could barely see them unless we passed beneath a streetlamp where they wafted about like gnats on a summer night, or like brilliant golden dust moats that dance in a sunbeam, the kind my grandmother told me were angels fluttering about us, keeping us safe. I could feel the snow on my face, though, cold and minuscule on my cheeks, refreshing on my eyelids. The air was clean and Duncan and I could not help but stop and turn our faces upward into the clouds, into the lazy fall of snow, into the vast quiet night spread out above us.

There is a use and purpose for all things, even those we are quick to dismiss, and especially those we strive to avoid.

Homecoming

It is one in the morning. I have just come home from a birthday party. It was not a long drive but my fingers are still cold from clutching the steering wheel and my glasses have fogged up from the short walk between my car and my apartment. Duncan has been sitting on my bed dozing, his face turned to the window. When the car pulled into my spot he perked up, stood and leaned his nose against the glass watching me gather my things and climb out. By the time I reach the second landing I can hear him at the front door, whining and chirping, and even though it is silent, I know his back end is shaking ferociously from side to side, his tail slapping against the closet and the bag of doggy bags I hang from its knob. By the third landing he is in full roar, unable to contain himself as my key slides into the lock and turns. Almost as soon as the door is open he is on me, leaping up, pressing his big, newly trimmed paws against my belly, pushing his warm nose into my chest, jumping as though to hug me. He grabs my hand softly in his warm, firm mouth and pulls me back outside, shimmying from side to side under the force of his tail. He leads me back down the stairs, across the drive and onto the grass, brittle and yellow, powdered white under a layer of crisp frost. He refuses to let go, refuses to tend to business, only wants to love me and welcome me home, standing back on his hind legs and nipping at my zipper, pushing against me like a child wanting to be picked up. I stroke the curling hair on his back, coo at him and kiss the top of his red, round head and tell him how happy I am to see him, how much I've missed him even though it's only been a few hours. And as we stand there together, dancing beneath Orion and The Dipper, I am grateful to have a friend such as this, to be welcomed home as though I'd been gone for years.

A Gift of Geese

At morning, before the sun has risen and not even the tallest peaks of the mountains to the west of us glitter with the first amber and violet rays of morning, Duncan and I are out in The Run, trudging through snow that refuses to melt despite our warm weather. Now that the geese have reclaimed all the wide open spaces around us--the golf course and the park where we walk--we are rarely alone in the morning silence. They chatter softly and then as more of them pull the short stump of their heads from beneath the warmth of a wing the talk grows louder and more hurried, like old women making afternoon plans. They climb to their feet and leave the melted ovals where they've roosted all night. As we plod along, diving into the snow, craning our necks to spot the squirrels huddled in the nudity of the cottonwoods, the geese lunge forward into an awkward run flapping their heavy wings until the air forgives them and grants them passage pulling them aloft. They circle the course and rise above the tallest trees to a point higher than the morning shadows and are able to coax the first rays of the sun awake. They capture the light on their bellies, these black, feathery oddities which move so selfishly and arrogantly through the world, thrusting the rising glory of the morning earthward, shining brilliantly as they sing unabashedly overhead, flying faster than the sun and giving, if only briefly, something back to the world, something beyond words and music, something somehow greater than the witnessing.


*Photo courtesy of George Bruckner. His amazing portfolio can be seen here. Please visit.

Hopes

It has been a sleepy day with Patty Griffin playing on the stereo. The sun has been very bright through the windows and even though the heat hasn't been turned on for nearly a week, the screen door is open and I am warm.

Duncan and I have walked down through The Run to The Glen several times, chasing squirrels and Buster, the cute little mutt who lives downstairs. The chores have been tended to and even though Dunc thought a little tug of war with his Bully sounded good, he gave up too soon, yawned a big, wide open yawn and went back to the couch to curl up in his favorite spot.


Even in his sleep he is gorgeous and I marvel at him, wondering what sweet dreams keep the smile on his face. I hope I am there with him, throwing the ball, wrestling in the long grass of summers past while the birds whistle above us. I hope I am praising him there and patting his tail or running my fingers though the hair at his ears. I hope he is happy and knows how much joy he brings me even when we're not walking.