Rescue

The staff and rec office at the park is a messy place where they toss the discarded remnants of rusty goal posts and fraying soccer nets. It's an eye-sore, but it's also where I take Duncan every afternoon to prowl for bunnies. They huddle among the metal posts and beams and the tall thistles which grow along the back side of the fence, hide under the lowest boughs of the pines and dart for cover under the chain-link and scamper into the shed. But Duncan loves it, for the softness of the grass , the heavy scents the rabbits leave behind and the park worker who drives by nightly in his golf cart to make friendly conversation and toss him treats.

The rabbits usually hear our approach on the sand leftover from last winter's road work and take cover immediately, but tonight one poor fellow fled under the fence only to find himself trapped in the thick rope of a soccer net. While Duncan shimmied and shook at the sight of him I realized he was in trouble as he continued to attempt to force himself through, finally exhausting himself once his neck and legs were thoroughly caught. I asked Dunc to sit while I approached the frightened, struggling bunny, which had tipped over on his side, his back legs kicking uselessly his narrow rib cage heaving. with every breath. Very carefully I knelt down, and loosened the thick ropes from around him. He stayed still, his brown eyes fixed on my hands as I worked to release him. Finally the last of the cords fell free. He righted himself as Duncan scooted up beside me. Together we watched the rabbit watch us, his breaths coming more slowly, his muscles relaxing, his ears still tall and alert above his head. Roo leaned forward, licked his back and whimpered softly. I smiled and patted his head as the thing tensed, gave a quick jerked and darted a few feet away, stopping once to look back at us before hurrying across the parking lot and into the shadows of the elms on the far side.

And Then Tonight

Yes, I can feel the summer slipping away. The edges of the Linden leaves are fraying with yellow streaks, the wind has picked up and the park is littered with the bones of branches broken loose by it. The nights have cooled, making sleep that much sweeter with the windows open and the crisp breeze exploring the nooks and crannies of the apartment while we all dream. The sun, lazy and fat, has started taking a short cut across the sky, arriving later and later each morning and turning in earlier, painting the world blue at a time when only a few weeks ago it was still bright and hot. Our walks have grown more precious and we linger longer outside, Duncan rolling in the grass while I watch the clouds, gold and luminous, slip from west to east.

But it's not gone, as I was reminded this afternoon when Duncan and I climbed the stairs after our walk. Dunc dragged me home from the park and a brief stop at The Glen, but he was hurried and had little interest in playing fetch or chasing the dragonflies which are suddenly plentiful there. He pulled me home quickly, bypassing the small shrubs where the squirrels hide, to lead me up the stairs where we found, waiting for us on the railing, our little birds, the two hatchlings I wrote about only last night.

At first I didn't notice their presence but one of them, perhaps impatient waiting for me, chirped loudly, ruffled its feathers and skittered right then left. Duncan and I stopped in our tracks. He turned his smile up at me and thumped his tail against my calf, his hind end doing an excited little shimmy. "Why, hello, little birds," I said greeted them as I patted Roo on the head and scratched behind his ears.

Many times Duncan has led me to the things I need: a sunflower growing along the path, a moon, fat and gold, rising above the trees, a leaf caught up in the moment and dancing with the wind. He knows things about me that only a best friend can know, and I suppose he knew that last night my Autumn melancholy was beginning to set in. But The Universe knows things, too, and as it has so many times this summer, conspired to lift my spirits and remind me that if only we listen and look, the world is full of marvels, always easy to miss and never expected.

My little birds, perched and waiting to greet me, brought a smile to my face and have made this night so much sweeter.

The Joy and Heartbreak of Little Birds

The Mud Swallow first appeared in June. It was sitting on the railing overlooking the stairwell, its tiny head darting back and forth. As soon as it saw me it dropped away, unfolded its wings and glided outside over the parking lot to take shelter on one of the shaded branches of the Linden tree.

It was there again when I came home from work, this time perched atop the red match-box of the fire alarm just outside my door, its body black and belly bright orange in the dim light. Again it flew away, chirping at me as it went. It was back the next morning and later when I returned home. Eventually we grew accustomed to one another and I found myself saying, "Good morning, little bird," in a high-pitched, sing-songy voice each time I opened the door, or as I came up the last landing of stairs, "It's just me, little bird." And the more I came and went the more it grew comfortable with me, staying on its perch and watching me as I fumbled with the key in the lock and slipped inside.

I didn't think much of it until mom and I returned from Pocatello after grandma's memorial service. As we carried our bags up the stairs I wondered if it would still be there and was just beginning to tell her the story when we spotted it. In the week I'd been gone it had built a nest atop the alarm, a yellow and gray mass of mud and grass that looked unsteady and precarious, but which held quite well. At first mom didn't believe it was a real bird but then its head swiveled in our direction as we approached and she let out a cry of surprise and wonder.

My little bird stayed all summer and was soon joined by another. Within a week the nest was overflowing with feathers and not long after that I heard the faint, tinny cry of hatchlings calling for food. "Good morning, little birds," I called as Duncan and I left for our first walk of the day, the brightly colored male watching over us from the railing while the female hunted for worms or wasps. And then again in the afternoon. "Hello, little birds."

Those words became the mantra of my summer. I was careful with them, alerting the new neighbors to their presence and shooing away their teenagers who congregated in the breezeway outside my door. Four little birds had moved in, quickly becoming my favorite tenants. They were quiet and polite and I was protective and careful with them. I watched and listened to the hatchlings grow, spotting them for the first time as little more than tiny white beaks peeking out over the lip of the nest, hidden among the feathers and grass, eventually seeing them stand upright so they could peer down on us with their new, curious and alert eyes.

And then one morning not long ago the nest was empty. The sun was bright and the day hot and I imagined they'd been hard at work learning to fly as soon as the sun had cracked the horizon. I stood below the red alarm box wondering about them, worrying about the hawks that glide in the skies above the golf course directly behind my apartment. But then one of their parents appeared on the landing, swooping in from the roof, chirped at me once and watched Dunc and I descend the stairs. The babies were there when I returned in the afternoon, their bodies overflowing the nest, and I knew it wouldn't be long before they found another home, their stay with us becoming a thing of the past. They remained for a week and then they disappeared completely. I stood under the nest and worried about them, and worried that the wind outside was signaling a change in the season. It wasn't until Friday when I came up the stairs and found the nest, crumbled and smashed, laying on its side on the cement outside the door. The last strands of it still clung to the top of the alarm, like the last stray bits of a dream that linger longer than sleep. The world has changed and they are finally gone for good. The nights have grown cool and the sun has shifted in its path across the sky. Orion has been seen prowling low along the horizon and I know these long, glorious days are coming to an end.

This morning as we slipped out, Duncan muddle-headed with sleep still in his eyes, one of the birds was sitting on the railing and chirped as soon as the door opened. "Good morning, little person," it seemed to say. "It's just me." We stopped and watched it a long time and as we stared at each other I felt the sweetness of summer fading slowly, becoming only a quiet memory.

The Slow Stalk

At the park this morning, when the dew was still thick, even in the sun, walking barefoot in the grass was like walking through bubbles, cold and crisp, the droplets collecting and then popping on the tops of my feet, bursting between my toes. The same bubbles collected on the end of Duncan's nose each time he dipped down into them and came up for air, the edges of his ears dragging and dampening against the ground, his eyes glimmering with the freshness and laziness of morning. He is a gentle walker when the hours are still early, content to step softly ahead of me as though still somehow navigating his way beyond his dreams and into the wakeful world. I love him always, of course, but Morning Duncan is the sweetest and most magical.

Coming back toward home, quite near the edge of the frontage road, he stopped and went stiff, suddenly alert and rigid. I followed the line of his sight and saw nothing but the sunny blue glimmer of dew on the grass. When I gave his leash a gentle tug to coax him along, he would have none of it and stayed quite still, his shadow turning solid beneath him. I studied the grass ahead of us more carefully, expecting to find the diffused sunlight shining threw the paper-thin ears of a baby bunny, the glow as soft as the dull shimmer of honeybees moving gracefully and with purpose. Still I saw nothing. I asked him what he saw but he was so focused he didn't turn in my direction; his tail, ever wagful did not even twitch at the sound of my voice.

His foot came slowly up, twitching softly as it does when he has spied something that utterly consumes his attention. It moved up and forward carefully, almost imperceptibly, a slow Ferris wheel arc before coming back down in the grass barely inches from where he'd lifted it. And then the other foot, just as carefully, perhaps with more consideration than the first. I shuffled slightly forward, watching ahead of us for something, a mouse maybe, or even the silver flash of a grass snake, but saw nothing. Slowly, slowly he advanced, and even though the minutes were slipping past and being on time for work was becoming an impossibility, I stood with him, moving just behind him, careful of my weight and the sound it made coming down on the grass.

And then there was the moment. We were almost upon it, whatever it was. His eyes were focused directly in front of him, at a point almost beneath his chest. He tensed, his ears and tail tucked down, his weight shifted back into his hind legs. His rear gave a jittery little twitch a moment before he leapt, springing straight up into the air and coming down with the burst of a masterful hunter onto a clear plastic sandwich bag.

The force of his breath, exploding with a deep harumph from his nose, lifted it up, shaking the water from its nearly invisible surface, and sent it sailing a foot ahead. He pounced again, his paws settling around it to hold it against him. He bit into it, felt its damp paperiness fold around his chin and against his cheeks, conforming around his tongue, and released it almost immediately. He patted it, knocking it through the grass and then turned to look at me in confusion, his ears back up, a quizzical angle to his eyebrows. His tail thumped once and then, almost as though embarrassed, snorted and rolled, face first, into the grass, his shoulders and hips following in perfect time, his belly turning toward the sun, his feet flailing in the air as though dancing across the blue of the sky.

I would be late every morning if only to witness such serious intention followed by such shameless celebration at the most minor of victories.

A New Star

Duncan and I crossed the street and meandered through the park as we have done more times than I could count. We bypassed the soccer hoards, skirting the edge of the park, around the four baseball diamonds to the low hill below the memorial where Dunc's bunnies roost. I dropped his leash and watched him explore, sniffing through the tall grass, under the low boughs of the pine trees and let him just be. He was graceful and cautious, diligent in his sniffing as only dogs can be, careful and vigilant, oblivious to my presence. And then when he was done he turned and smiled in my direction, ambled over, licked my cheek and dipped his head into the grass at my side, pushing himself against me, rolling over onto his belly to look directly into my eyes and the blue sky beyond. He was free to wander but he wanted to be there with me as much as I wanted to be with him, so I took his paw in my hand, leaned down and kissed it.

I am grateful for his presence by my side and will not take a single moment for granted. I am lucky to have him in my life and to feel a bond with such a special creature. And as I looked at him laying next to me, his paw cradled in my hand I thought of our blog friends Michael and Miguel and their own Golden companion Duncan, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge this afternoon after a day of being treated like a prince, given all the treats he couldn't enjoy when he was healthier, loved as much as he deserved. Their hearts are heavy tonight, no doubt, but I have been reminded of what a precious gift I have been given, what a tremendous responsibility it is to love and care for a soul as remarkable as that of a Golden but also what joy and happiness it brings with it. And tonight, on our last walk before bed, we will venture out, Duncan's nose to the grass while my eyes scan the sky for that new, bright star that has taken its place in the heavens, set to forever shine down on those who loved it so much in the brief time it was here.

Bless you, Michael, bless you, Miguel, and godspeed to your friend and companion. You are in my heart.

The Full Curt

Perhaps it was the soccer hoards that set me off, the wildly tame throngs of vanilla-coated parents milling around, polluting the wide sidewalks with their talk of mini-vans, which sports darling Shelby and little Jackson plan on playing this year, the extremely anti-hip whine of their ring-tones emanating from their L.L. Bean pockets and their refusal to step aside when Duncan and I pass through. "Excuse me.... excuse me...." I say as we wind past them while they merely stare, slack-jawed and vapid in their refusal to budge an inch, as hostile as if I were asking them to co-sign on a loan. "Excuse me," I say again, but what I really want to yell is "Get the hell out of my way for once, won't you?!"

I do not like them and what they and their shrill children do to my park. Each night after they depart they leave the field covered in empty, crushed water bottles, forgotten socks, crumpled bags of fast food and their careless, selfish disrespect. Duncan and I walk the park every day, several times, picking up after them, playing in the grass, laying under the trees, chasing bunnies, and they could care less. The park I call a second home is simply backdrop to them. They don't see it. Hell, most of them don't even notice their children being screamed at by the coaches they've hired to babysit.

This time of year is always difficult, the slow transition from the Summer's exuberance to the tame melancholy of Autumn and the invasion of the inconsiderate after-school crowds. I should be used to it by now, but something about today has convinced me that I can't do it again. As much as we love the lake and the rolling hills, chasing the bunnies, being close to the mountains and our magnificent and violent sunsets, I don't think I have it in me to spend another year in the languid indifference of this suburb. I would gladly trade it for a small apartment in an old converted Victorian down on Capitol Hill, surrounded by diversity and excitement. I'd gladly trade the nearby Applebee's and Red Lobster for a quiet mom-and-pop joint. And I could certainly do without the two hours of commute time each day. Duncan and I could use a change of scenery and people.

And we could certainly do without this particular brand of mindless insanity greeting us in the mornings and following us around the lake each night.

It might have been the soccer hoards but I'm quite sure this was the cherry on the banana split of our walk this afternoon. It took all the strength I had to not scream out, "No one likes you! No one likes your music! The only people paying attention are your parents and even they can't wait to sell that  damn trombone!"

But I'm nicer than that so I'll move next Spring and we'll find a more Duncan and Curt-like place somewhere out there in the world. There has to be some place. I'm sure of it.

Metaphor

Duncan's wisdom came through on a day when I needed it the most, a windy day that looked more like early Autumn than August, with a restless blue sky, as pale and close as veins just under the skin, with bright rays of gold shining through the dancing boughs and branches, the kind of day that looks as though it's best experienced from the calm side of a window but needs to be walked through and lived in.

He knew what I needed when I couldn't find it myself so he led me to the park where a branch had broken free of its tree, forgotten and discarded on the grass. He lifted it up and pulled it to a spot that suited him and managed it in the only way he knows how, one bite at a time, and in so doing told me everything I needed to navigate the anxiety that had claimed me and threatened to render all my hard work useless.

I would be lost without him, adrift like the leaves cascading down and swept across the unending fields.

Behind Each and Every Blink

I am a good walker. It took some training, and although he's still not perfect, Duncan has come a long way from the days when he pulled so hard on his leash, dragging Ken and I down the sidewalks past the perfectly manicured lawns and Disney-esque neighborhood of Stapleton where we lived, reaching so far forward that he practically laid down on the sidewalk, choking and sputtering as he went. Now he wanders a little ahead of me, pulling only slightly and minding me when I tell him to leave it when he's investigated the same blade of grass for five minutes. I have trained him to stop at my side before we cross the street, even if only by bribing him with pumpkin cookies. But no matter how mindful and vigilant I am I constantly remind myself that accidents do happen.

This morning on the way to work, tired after another long sleepless night of staring at the pillow or the Picasso hanging on the wall across from my bed, I finally jolted fully awake––not by my shower or my morning walk with Roo, or even the slow drive across Denver––by the sight of three fire trucks stopped in the middle of the road. They'd pulled over in a half circle directly behind a Subaru, which had skidded to a stop along the edge of the sidewalk. Their lights flashed brightly even in the summer sun. A small crowd had gathered on the sidewalk and as I steered slowly and cautiously around them, I glanced over to see a beautiful chocolate lab laying in the street only inches from the curb, a gang of fireman standing around him looking down on his body, discussing what should be done. It was only a brief glance but long enough to see the poor boy twitch and heave, his leg shiver and his chest rise and fall in big, heaving gasps. And worst of all, standing over him his human companion, sobbing hysterically, the leash still clutched in her tight fist, its other end still fastened to his collar. I gasped and looked away, my eyes stinging with tears. I have seen that image every time my eyes have closed today, behind each and every blink.

Accidents happen, I've told myself a thousand times today. Accidents happen. But still, tonight as we crossed the six lanes of Bowles on our way to the park, we stood a long time, Duncan at my side waiting for the okay to cross, waiting for every single car to pass before we stepped out into the street. Each step we took was precious but guarded and there has not been a moment since I walked in the door that I have not silently thanked The Universe for his life and whispered pleas that we are together a very long time, and then when we do part it is not with violence and pain, but silence and peace.

Please, do not let the accidents happen to us. Please keep me a good papa to a good dog.

A Great and Lovely Weight

After the Sunday chores were finished, after playing with Roo down at The Glen, after my lunch and a tiny bowl of vanilla ice cream topped with a couple of hearty spoonfuls of Nutella, it was time for an afternoon nap on the couch. Duncan curled up at my feet but quickly relocated to the floor where I could rest one hand on his rib cage. I dozed and dreamed of a warm bed, covered in heavy blankets but then the dream turned––as dreams do––and I felt as though a great weight was pressing down on my chest, slowly pushing the air out of me, compressing my body the way a bug must feel when a foot pushes down on it from above. I startled awake, gulping for air, and was met with Pip's cold nose touching my lips, a reassuring tap as though to say "It was just a dream." I blinked awake and understood immediately where the dream had come from.

Just another day in the life of this papa. Great and lovely.

Watching

This is what I can tell you about Duncan:

--he is left-legged, meaning that when he pees he always lifts his left leg
--when I come home he will wait for me to set my bag on the couch and take my lunch box into the kitchen before he gently takes my right hand in his mouth and guides me down the hallway, his back end gyrating like the needle of a compass
--when you turn him on his back to rub his belly, his mouth will fall open and his ears will slip back making him look like a rabid bunny and he snorts and sneezes uncontrollably until you right him again
--he will howl, his mouth a perfect oval whenever he hears an ambulance, but he ignores a police or firetruck siren
--when I set his food dish down he will sit at my feet and wait for me to say a blessing to his health and long life and then kiss him on the head, but if I skip the kiss he will wait to eat until I remember
--he brings his toys to bed, lining them up next to me before settling down and curling up at my feet
--when asked who he loves he will say. "I love you" and jump up and down in celebration
--there is nothing as wondrous to him as new-fallen snow, which speaks to him and asks only that he bury his head in it and run in circles, kicking it up so that it may take flight, if only briefly, once more before resting forever
--he cheats when we race up the steps to our apartment, always leaping forward on the count of two rather than waiting until I reach three
--he can tell you when it's 8 o'clock because that's when it's breakfast and dinner time
--he will bow to you first thing in the morning and then stretch and yawn and wink once as a welcome to your day
--he will sidle up beside me when I'm sad, lick my cheek and lean his head on my shoulder, sighing as though to tell me he understands and is here for me
--his craving for pumpkin cookies will make him do anything you ask
--the vacuum, which frightens him, makes him stand between it and the cats, as though shielding them
--he knows the names of each of his toys and will fetch them if asked

Sometimes when I lay on the couch and read or watch a movie, or wake up in the middle of the night, I will catch him just sitting and watching me, his head cocked to one side, and I wonder what he could tell you about me, the little things even I do not notice. Perhaps he would say nothing, content with his knowledge, silent with the magnitude of our friendship.

Playing with Someone Else's Balls*

Duncan and I stopped by Brady's apartment last night on our way back from our last walk. The sun had set but dark had not quite settled in above the mountains. The sky, except for a single, narrow stripe of clouds, was clear and thick with stars. The early evening rain had tickled the scents from the grass and trees and the rich dark ground. The glow of light from the parking-lot lamps was crushed by dancing swirl of moths and gnats. But Brady's apartment was cool and quiet and the music, as always, was good.

Duncan is a little afraid of Roxie, Brady's mutt, which, in our feeble and fruitless attempts to identify, we have dubbed A Czechoslovakian Toad Hound. Roxie is a good dog, trained by the inmates of a Kansas prison. She sits and stays, shakes, hugs, does everything she's told, but she's not very friendly when Duncan comes inside to visit. They play happily and without care in The Glen, but once inside she has a nasty habit of snarling and snapping. Dunc tries hard to avoid her, sometimes crawling over coffee tables to do it, but loves her toys. Brady has spoiled Roxie with dozens of tennis balls, chewy ropes, stuffed animals and all manner of plastic squeaky things, and Duncan, who, despite the bureau I keep filled with balls and fraying, well-loved friends, feels completely neglected and must play with everything in Roxie's stockpile.

Brady and I sat on the patio overlooking The Run. The night was hot but a cool breeze wound its way through the leaves of the maple which grows mere feet away from his balcony. Duncan lounged at my feet, two or three radiation-green tennis balls scattered in front of him. Roxie stood guard in the doorway 'les he sneak back in and grab a few more toys. Duncan gnawed and chewed, rolled them back and forth between his paws and glanced up every few minutes with a sheepish grin on his face. Roxie could not reach him and he was free to play unfettered.

We didn't stay long, no more than an hour. Duncan, who loves Brady, gave him a long lick on the leg, slipped past Roxie, who immediately began a careful inventory of the balcony. Duncan, normally reluctant to leave, waited anxiously at the door, eager for the leash and the walk home. He dragged me down the stairs, across the parking lot and to our own door.

Even though we have been avoiding it, Duncan was eager to venture down The Run this morning, ignoring the flocks of birds cackling from the shrubs and the squirrels which he chases from tree to tree. He barely stopped to tend to business but charged ahead as though on a mission. I struggled on the slight slope, the grass damp underfoot, and managed as best I could to keep up with him. Normally he won't go too far ahead and stops often to wait for me to catch up, but this morning he could have cared less, forgetting to glance over his shoulder and ignoring my whistles. When I lost sight of him I rushed forward and found him scouring the shrubs below Brady's balcony, two of Roxie's tennis balls firmly lodged in his mouth and attempting to squeeze a third one in. He looked up at me, tail wagging a thousand miles an hour, a full, but guilt-free smile spread across his face. While we'd chatted last night Duncan had been casually slipping the balls between the rails and dropping them to the ground below to be retrieved on our morning walk.

How he must have suffered all night, curled up beside me, feigning sleep while his revenge loot waited to be claimed. I tossed two balls back up but let him keep the third as reward for his patience and cunning.


*You should be ashamed for thinking what you were thinking!

Rude Awakening

Last night was not a restful night. While Duncan snored loudly from his bed on the floor and the cats angled for the best spot on my pillow, I struggled to get even the briefest amount of sleep. But even after silence descended––except for the low bubbling ring of the wind chimes from outside my window––I laid on my back staring at the ceiling or at the obscure shadowy figure of the Picasso print that hangs on my wall. It wasn't until nearly 5:45, a mere fifteen minutes before the alarm sounded, that I dozed off, still slightly aware of the soft shape of Olive curled up on the pillow above my head.

Somehow or another my feet found the floor and I pulled myself into the shower while the rest of the family slept, oblivious to my weariness. I stood under the water a long time, my face turned directly into the hot spray, running with a loud rush down into the curling crevices of my ears. Later, the baby-scream of the tea kettle summoned everyone to breakfast and while they ate I sipped from my mug and dozed at the counter, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to call in to work and sleep on the couch.

But Duncan needed his morning walk, so we slipped down the stairs, around the side of the building and onto the dewy grass of The Run, which we have avoided since the monster dogs, who snarl and froth from their patio, moved in late last Spring. Duncan ran freely while I thought of all the miles we'd logged back there, walking from home to The Glen and home again under the heavy boughs, over the packed snow and ice. The squirrels are Dunc's primary object of interest, but this morning he was enraptured by the birds, from the big squawking crows to the tiny gray and brown things which look like stones but flutter like a storm of dust motes before an open window. He chased after them, reaching as far up the trunks of the Aspens as he could, grinning and whining while they looked down  disapprovingly from above.

My eyes were heavy and I wondered if I'd ever wake up when Roo suddenly turned and darted into one of the low shrubs which grows in front of someone's patio just feet away from where I stood. He dove head first into the thick greenery, yapped as a cyclone of tiny birds erupted from hiding, fluttering around his head. He snapped again and then jerked back as he does when he investigates something that startles him by its movement. He turned to look at me and as I bent to pat him on the head, he opened his mouth and released the small bird he'd somehow held on his tongue. The thing screeched and flapped up into my face, spun in the air shaking loose the dog slobber that coated its wings and breast feathers and flittered away, vanishing into the high branches of the trees.

Duncan smiled widely, almost wickedly, and jumped up, his paws resting against my belt. I was wide awake, perhaps more so than on any morning in recent memory, but not nearly as awake as that bird, which cursed at us long after we had moved away.

Home

It was a long drive from Lowry, the yellowed-grass and nearly treeless former military base where I work, down Quebec, which can't seem to decide if it wants to be one lane or two, to the endless stretch of Hampden, which crosses over the wide lanes of I-25, down the hill to the golf course and on and on until it reaches Santa Fe, the final industrial-zoned stretch of road before I'm home. It is a grueling drive and not scenic at all. Rather I'm often choked by the diesel fumes belched out by the endless convoy of garbage trucks on their way to the landfill. The sky had turned into one long, asphalt-colored mass overhead, devoid of streaks or formations, and the first warm drops of rain were beginning to strike the windshield by the time I arrived, not enough to merit leaving the wipers on but just so much that they streaked and smeared without wiping clean away. The short walk from the car, parked under the Linden tree, which has already begun to shed it's yellowed leaves, up the thirty-seven steps to my front door, seemed impossibly long.

Until I looked up and spotted a familiar face in the darkened window, a pink tongue lolling out of a grinning mouth, ears perked up and alert.

Duncan was waiting for me, joyous and dancing. Before slipping the key into the lock and turning the knob I stood and listened to his feet on the tile, counted the erratic  rhythm of his tail beating between the door and the wall, was grateful for the sound of him before my fingers had even touched the pointed top of his lovely head, felt the wetness and soft pressure of his mouth on my wrist as he pulled me inside.

I am home, I thought. I am home where I am safe. And loved.

Double Two

The family was playing catch in the park. They, and the friends who'd joined them, were young, perhaps only in their mid-20's. It was a perfect day with temperatures in the low 70's. The sky to the north and west was threatening to cloud over but the air was warm and without a breeze. The men and their young sons had their shirts off while they tossed the ball. The grass was green all around them and because the sun was so bright the shadows of the trees were crisp and dark. The smell of hamburgers drifted across the soccer field from the grill where the two women––no more than girls, really––tended to lunch, spreading the buns and jars of condiments on the picnic table, checking the patties, chatting softly amongst themselves over the portable CD player they'd brought. Two daughters, uninterested in the baseball or the cooking were wandering across the field gathering sticks from the grass. The blond girl was taller and older than her companion, a child not yet four, who wore shorts and a diaper. When they spotted Duncan and me trotting along the edge of the hillside overlooking the big willow they stumbled toward us in that way children have when they run and their legs are still not quite yet used to it.

Duncan did not want to tend to business. Most walks he'll go as soon as I simply show him the bright green plastic bag with the words "Poopy Pouch" printed across the front beneath a cartoon of a squatting dog. Once he sees that he'll begin sniffing until he finds his spot and then, after I turn my back, will take care of things. But today he did not want to. He looked at me with the kind of vacancy most people reserve for foreigners and merely trotted along. "Duncan, go!" I urged him. "When you go we'll take a long walk down Leawood and hunt for bunnies." His ears perked at their mention but he soon lost interest. So we wandered here and there, up to the skate park and finally down to the long grass and reeds that grow around the willow. I figured the privacy might be beneficial but he didn't care and pulled me up the hillside. After wandering back and forth for a few minutes he seemed to have found what he was looking, that perfect place in the long, cool grass. It was when he started to squat that the little girls spotted us.

They squealed and ran straight toward us. "Puppypuppypuppypuppy," the little one chanted as she climbed the hill on her fat, unsteady legs. Duncan stood up quickly, as though caught in the act and wagged his tail as they approached. I sighed and put a smile on my face, giving him the hand signal to sit and wait.

They paused a few feet away. "Can we pet your dog?" the older one asked. Once I gave them permission they stepped forward and began stroking Duncan's back and shoulders, running their little fingers over his ears and across his nose. The stains on their faces and hands told me they'd been eating ice cream. Duncan began lapping at them, moving back and forth between the two until they giggled loudly.

"What is his name?" the blond asked.

"Duncan," I told her.

"Duncan," she said as though feeling the word in her mouth for the first time. "That's an awkward name," she frowned. "Are you walking Duncan?"

"I sure am," I said. "I'm trying to get him to go potty."

The older one nodded thoughtfully. The little one stepped up. "Doesn't he like to potty?" she asked.

"Sometimes he does but I think he's shy."

She nodded. "I'm not shy," she said thoughtfully. And then, a moment later added "And I like to potty." Then, without hesitation, she arched her back, farted loudly and promptly filled her diaper, grinning wildly at me as she went.

That was all the approval Duncan needed. He immediately squatted and did the same.

It's a glamorous life I lead.

To:

People have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never knows what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love––the deepest kind of love. (Wilson Rawls)

Mrs. Coons,

I was terrified of you throughout most of the third grade and as the end of the year approached I'd find myself whispering into my pillow, hoping God would hear me, or under my breath as I entered the building at the start of the school day, passing your classroom across from the library, praying that my name would not be on your fourth grade roster at the start of the next school year. And who could blame me? You were a stern figure with a tight and set face, a mop of dark hair cut short and curling in the remnants of a beehive. Your posture was purely military, straight and rigid with your fists clenched as tight as baseballs at your side. No one wanted to be in your class because the older kids whispered rumors to us on the playground, telling us how strict and unyielding you were, what a monster you could be when angered or provoked.

But then it happened. That fall, as my mother held my hand outside the building where the classroom assignments were taped to the brick, we read my name on your roster and I thought I was going to vomit. I remember trembling and trying so hard just to walk as we took Casey to her first grade class before turning and moving down the long hallway to your room. It was with fearful steps that I crossed your threshold and scanned the desks for my name before taking my seat. I remembered Jimmy Little on his first day of third grade, entering Mrs. Ashton's classroom, crying hysterically and vomiting all over the oblong carpet at the front of the room. The moment it happened I knew that we would forever remember Jimmy, taller than the rest of us, yellow-haired and impossibly thin, like a piece of straw. He was forever set in our minds, retching and sputtering, tears streaming down his face, flailing and screaming. And years later, when he played football for the rival high school, I kept that image in my mind and told the few football player friends I had that beneath it all he was just a frightened, puking child. I refused to be a Jimmy Little, refused to spill my guts on the floor or even let my mother know how terrified I was. I watched her slip away and turned to the friends from the previous year who'd also had the misfortune to be assigned to you.

Of course you were everything that had been reported to us by the survivors of your classroom, but you were also so much more and I had no idea that to this day you would become the teacher I most miss, the one I still yearn to find and thank. That was the year Paul Hunt, the chubby kid from Manitoba, was my best friend, the year I had an insane crush on Marlies Rowe, the pretty red-headed girl, the year I learned the difference between there, their and they're, the year I first read Where the Red Fern Grows, and the year I learned to write.

We had weekly writing assignments and while my classmates––Todd Bell, who would go on to become the all-state wrestling champ, Brandon Carter, a talented artist who would squander it on drugs and booze by the 8th grade, and David Davis, who we knew was gay before we knew what gay was––dreaded the chore, I loved it and they loved my love of it. At the end of the week we had to read our stories aloud standing at our desks, but you always asked the class whose story they wanted to hear first. Mine, inevitably, was always chosen. I remember writing about an Excedrin headache even though I didn't know what one was. At Thanksgiving there was a story about Squanto and the pilgrims that had the class laughing. At Christmas before you got sick and left us I read a story about two toothbrushes falling in love and though I had grown use to the approval of my classmates it was your smile and laughter I most sought.

And then you were gone. You explained that you were sick and would be taking some time away from us. Mrs. Hegstead, the daughter of my neighbor, took over the class for the rest of the year, and although she was warm and wonderful, short and pink-cheeked, fun in every way, she was not you. In desperation I remember hunting for your name in the phone book and being shocked to find it. I called you to read you a story, apologized for disturbing you but you assured me I could call and read to you any time I liked. And so I did, checking in with you every few weeks, feeling more and more at ease with each conversation. I read and reread Where the Red Fern Grows because it was your favorite book. And at the end of the year, when you came to our party and told us you'd be moving to Boulder, Colorado to live with your son, I was heartbroken that I would not see you again. But as the final bell rang and the classroom emptied, you slipped me a card with a note that read, "Curt, you must promise me you will never stop writing, that you will always strive to bring a smile to the faces of others as you have done with your classmates and with me." I have it still. Thirty years later.

Today, walking Duncan in the warm rain, the sky dark but somehow golden above us, I saw a solitary figure on the far side of the park, a woman with a dark maroon coat and a concrete posture, standing and watching Roo run through the drops before throwing himself for a roll in the wet grass. I tensed and thought of you, filling up with the kind of love that only the fondest of memories can bring. And then almost immediately I knew it wasn't you, couldn't be, because certainly after all this time you wouldn't be here any more. But those memories were pleasant and warm and I thought of all the things I'd tell you if I could, that I still write every day, that that book you read to us––all except the last chapter which you asked me to read because Billy burying Old Dan and Little Ann always made you cry––shaped my life, and that his love for his dogs has carried over into my own life and had a profound impact on me. I wanted you to know that without your presence that year, and your encouragement, I would not be the person I am.

Thank you, Margo Coons, for helping shape the man I have become and the love I have for this dog who calls me his own.

It’s strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man’s mind for so many years.

Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new,

just by something you’ve seen, or something you’ve heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.

(Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows)

"This is the Place to Go Now"

A cloud does not know why it moves in just such a direction and such a speed... It feels an impulsion... this is the place to go now. But the sky knows the reasons and the patterns behind all clouds, and you will know, too, when you lift yourself high enough to see beyond the horizon. (Richard Bach)

Last night, after the afternoon rain that put an early end to the annual Colorado Irish Festival at the park, Duncan and I ventured out in the cool evening for our walk. Duncan was distracted by the smell of all the dropped treats, and I was distracted by him, keeping my eye on him to make sure he didn't get into anything he shouldn't. The air smelled, as it has for weeks, of Linden blossoms, and tasted luscious on the tongue with each breath I took. The grass, still damp, was cold on my open toes, but tickled as I passed through it. Duncan convinced me to tromp with him through the puddles and we were so focused on what was happening at our feet that neither of us noticed what was happening in the skies above until after I got home and sat down at my desk.

We stood in the window for a very long time, watching the sun do what it does best with the clouds, play and caress, tousle and agitate. I could hardly breath as I realized that I am fortunate to have such a view and that such things should never be taken for granted.

Bigger than mountains and cities, fierce and full of rapture, they sat there unseen by so many passing directly beneath them, as unappreciated as the air we breath. And yet we'd be lost and forsaken without them.

I am grateful for this life of mine, as difficult as it can be, and grateful for this good, red dog walking at my side. Duncan and these colors and this sky are enough to sustain me for all the days to come.

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone,

but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars. (Martin Luther)

Down to the River

I have never been much of a churchgoer but I do believe that we take the voice of The Universe with us wherever we go. And so on a hot July morning Duncan and I attended the church of our choice, a beautiful spot down at the river where we were able to celebrate in our own unique fashion.

The Gentlest of Souls

At first there were only four of them, little things that crept out of the shrubs onto the lawn on the far side of the parking lot in full view of Duncan, who lays on the balcony and waits for them. We have watched them grow from small kittens into fair-sized rabbits over the past two months. Dunc could hardly wait to drag me to their warren under the bushes, slowing as we approached, his eyes scanning the long grass for sight of them. Often the only thing we could see was the sunlight shining through their paper-thin ears, painted gold by the afternoon rays. They'd allow us to come remarkably close before darting for cover. They were the only four we saw, but over the last few weeks, as the scent of the Russian Olives has been replaced by the overwhelming perfume of the Lindens and their yellow flowers, that number has increased dramatically. The four became eight and now there is hardly a place we can walk without stumbling upon one, crouched low, impersonating a flat stone in the grass, their ears held low along their backs, their eyes wide but unmoving as they wait for us to pass.

There is a place in The Glen that Duncan has returned to again and again as the summer has progressed and the grass has grown long, a shady spot along the edge of the fence between our earthen bowl and the golf course which runs behind the property. It is a lovely spot, nestled under a tall, wide cottonwood and a young Russian Olive where the loud blades of the mowers cannot reach. A sprig of wild daisies has sprung up and the sun dapples the grass in the afternoon like gold reflecting off water. Each time I throw his ball he carries it down there and pokes about, sometimes lingering for long minutes, sniffing here and there, laying down, one paw held over his ball, the other reaching under the fence.

This afternoon, too hot to play much, I sat on the hillside above him while he ambled to and fro, sniffing here and there, checking his marked territory. His bright green tennis ball lay forgotten in the long grass at the edge of the fence while he dallied, but suddenly he lunged forward at the dark earth, pulled back momentarily and lunged again. I sat up and called to him. He turned, his tail wagging ferociously and started a slow and careful jog toward me, something small and brown held safely in his mouth.

I knew immediately what he had done and leapt up, hurrying barefoot down the hill toward him where he stopped and waited, the baby rabbit hanging limp by the scruff of its neck in his mouth. He smiled in that bashful way of his and laid down, setting the thing before him between his paws as I neared. He licked it once and looked up at me expectantly.

It was small, probably no more than a few weeks old, hardly bigger than one of his long, narrow paws. It hunkered down, ears low and waited. I leashed Roo, patted him on the head and told him what a good job he had done. He licked it again and let me lean in close to inspect it. It waited, breathing heavily. I laid a hand on its warm, moist back and felt its tiny heart racing against my open palm. Dunc watched, his own ears high, his eyes wide, tail still wagging. The thing startled and as I pulled Duncan away, it jerked once then scampered back toward the fence-line, zig-zagging as it went, kicking its hind feet behind it once or twice before vanishing into the shadows. Duncan sat beside me and made no move to follow, obviously pleased with himself and his find.

"Good boy," I told him and slipped him one of the papaya-mango coconut cookies I keep in my pocket."You're a very good boy."

I always insisted he would be kind to a bunny should he ever be lucky enough to catch one. Tonight I  was proven correct. He is truly the gentlest of souls.

Wakeful Dreams

The clouds rolled in along the edges of the horizon tonight in lines, like row after row of white waves lapping against the idyllic, sandy rim of a tranquil lagoon. And Duncan and I, strolling as we were through the Linden-scented night, soon forgot the sky and the setting sun, and found ourselves, instead, looking up as though from a comfortable blue depth, at the mirror place where water and air meet.  A mismatched small fat girl in a pink and blue stripped tank-top bobbed along in a current, the frills of her purple skirt reaching out as she passed, like the arms of some colorful anemone grasping at daylight. A bunny scuttled past, darting under a low hedge like a crab seeking shelter under a mottled, water-kissed rock. The clouds were like great ripples fanning out into wide circles except where their line was broken by the silver flash of one, no two--three!-- silver dolphins, sleek and perfect, their arc puncturing the surface and dragging it after them as they dove behind the mountains, following the sun to the end of another day.

On evenings as quiet and serene as this, with my dog at my side, the sun slipping low and my mind racing with wakeful dreams, I remember the lines of Wallace Stevens and wish that just once I could capture a moment forever by writing something as perfect:

And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Time Capsule

Duncan and I have come home to be with my family and say farewell to my grandmother.

While it was not the easiest journey, we made it safely and despite the shocking cold in the air--yesterday morning was vaguely October-ish even with all the green in the trees and on the mountains--it was well worth the trouble. I have been in need of a quiet and peaceful place, searching for an escape which I finally found in my mother's garden.

While Duncan plays outside with Zeus, the neighbor's German Shepherd, I wander across the grass and marvel at the place my mother and Kevin have carved out for themselves on the edge of the desolate and sage-riddled desert foothills. It is lush and green here like we don't have even in Colorado. The calendar may say that summer is nearly upon us but in Pocatello Spring seems to only have just begun. The ground is still very soft and dark and moist, and the garden is practically dripping with nectar. The Russian Olives have not yet bloomed even though they are nearly finished in Denver where the Lindens are already beginning to open and waft. As Duncan and Zeus frolic and chase one another I find a nice warm, sun-dappled spot in the shade and listen to the birds, which come in colors I have not seen since I left Illinois: the tanagers with their bright heads, the magpies, purple and cobalt in the sun, the tiny darting hummingbirds, so small and fragile but so fiercely territorial. The air smells clean and delicious and rich enough that I can almost lap at it with my tongue. A buck meandered into the yard and excited Roo, who chased it off before returning to me.

This place is a time capsule where magic can unlock memory. I drive the streets past new buildings and homes, up mountain roads that wind and wend, my muscles somehow remembering where the potholes are, where to slow for dips in the road. There is hardly a place in this town not tied to some precious spot in my heart, and with very little effort I can see the faces I surrounded myself with twenty and thirty years ago. The Universe always listens and sometimes it answers us if we ask the right question. Just yesterday I literally bumped into my friend April and her two sons, the very April I wrote about a week ago but did not expect to see or hear from. There is great magic here indeed.

I have forgotten how perfect this place can be at times and shouldn't have to work so hard to be reminded that no matter how isolated I sometimes feel in Denver, that there is a home here for me, a place where I feel rejuvenated and safe, even if only through photographs and sweet, golden memory. Immaculate and untouchable.

To:

April,

It has been a very long time, my old friend, and although our lives have changed dramatically since last we hugged and shared one of our many perfect and poignant farewells, you have been on my mind a great deal. I think of your sons and marvel that I have never met them, that they probably don't even know I exist. I think of the Pretty Girl with Pink, Round Cheeks, the Handsome Young Man and the Little Red Car. I think of how shocked our younger selves would be to discover we'd not only lived past thirty but that we were nearing forty.

Lately, as the Russian Olives have come back into bloom I have been thinking of the safe, quiet spot in Idaho we called home for so long, and how it was you who taught me that although it wasn't a place we felt comfortable, or a place that offered us the kind of opportunities we dreamed of pursuing in our lives, it was our home and that it would always be there waiting for us, even if only in memory. And most importantly there was a beauty there that should never be overlooked.

Duncan has been leading me to the Russian Olives this week, somehow knowing how important they are to my spirit. Growing up in Idaho I never noticed them, which seems strange because you can hardly throw a stick there without hitting one. In my memory Johnny Creek, that long and winding road up to your parent's home, was practically infested with them. They always looked rather weedish, like something that springs up along the edges of a dusty Idaho stream. Their pungent aroma was so strong at times it was almost sickening and made me recall childhood fishing trips standing on the shore of a lake or the bank of a river mere feet away from where some bottom-feeding sucker lay rotting in the sunshine, it's rainbow scales faded and gray, it's puckered mouth agape, discarded but refusing to be forgotten.

It wasn't until you joined me in the Midwest where the Russian Olives don't grow, that I learned to love them so voraciously. Their absence was heart-wrenching and pained you greatly. Often we journeyed across the vast, bland plains to our mountainous home and as soon as we entered The West you'd hang your head out the window, or take long walks at rest stops and just breathe, your head tilted back, your face turned into the dying blue of the day, your eyes picking out the first twinkling of faraway stars. "That is the smell of home," you'd tell me in a whisper. "Do you remember? My favorite smell in all the world." So I'd stand with you and just breathe until I felt Pocatello racing through my veins, pumping the blood in my heart, igniting images of those mountains and our valley and all the years we'd spent there.

The summer Aran had his truck and let us take the top off, we spent our nights driving through the mountains and down onto the desert of the reservation and each time you caught a whiff of your tree you seemed to change, become someone far wiser, someone who took nothing for granted and understood the deeper meanings and subtler nuances of all creation. Your unruly mane of chestnut hair lifted up, caught on the wind and whipped across your cheek, sometimes catching on your fire-engine red lips, where you'd pull at it with a perfectly manicured fingernail, tucking it safely behind your ear. You never looked more beautiful than on those nights.

So I smell the Russian Olives each day when I walk Roo, and at night when the air cools I open my windows and they waft through my small apartment––the one I never envisioned for myself––inciting dreams of days I'd give anything to revisit. I think of you and how big the hole in my heart has become with your absence. I think of Ken, now living in Milwaukee, so close to you, and how there's almost nothing I wouldn't do to spend an evening with just the two of you, smoking a cigarette, talking and laughing so hard we'd be hurt the next morning.

I don't know if you'll ever read this, but if you do I hope there's nothing you take for granted, that you have been taking care of my Messy Little Man, that there is still something in you that burns as fiercely as that creature I rode shotgun with across the roads of The West, the one who taught me  a love of simple things and a love of home I never understood, the one who introduced me to the wild, weedy trees that pain me with longing and gratitude.

I hope you are still immaculate and untouchable.