Quiet in the Darkness

It snowed for the first time in a long time tonight, and despite leaving work early I still somehow managed to arrive home well past my usual hour, when the apartment was still dark except for the light above the stove which casts a feeble but reassuring and welcoming glow across the room. Olive and Pip met me at the door, as they almost always do, their faces mixed with anxiety and relief at my arrival, hopeful that I would forgo my usual routine of changing my clothes before starting their dinner. They yowled and purred happily as they entwined themselves around my ankles as I move slowly through the darkness, and still Duncan did not appear.

After I'd shaken the snow from my coat and hung it up, slipping out of my shoes and donning my slippers in one fluid and well-rehearsed motion I stepped quietly down the hall and found Roo laying on the bed, his silhouette a silver outline against the low light seeping through the window. He seemed oblivious to my presence and did not stir even when I climbed up behind him, a big spoon against his warm body. His eyes, half open, were only half-focused on the snow falling outside and I could tell from his deep breathing that he'd been sleeping and wasn't awake enough to realize I'd come home. I bent my head down to his ear and whispered softly to him, "How's my boy?" as I draped one arm across the shape of him and gazed over his shoulder at the big, fluffy flakes sticking to the window. We laid there a few minutes before he tensed and stirred and I felt the soft thump-thump of his tail against the blanket. Then he turned to me, rolling on his side as he moved, a soft whine, more like a sigh, whispering from his throat as he licked my cheek and settled back down into the pillows, content and lazy.

And there we stayed for a long time, enjoying the quiet of the darkness, the warmth of our home, and the soft twinkle of the snow falling three stories below.

A Family Again

After ten long days apart, with Ken in Michigan visiting his family, and Duncan and me in Idaho visiting mine, last night our little family was finally reunited. Duncan and the cats met us at the door and gave Little Man the greeting he deserved.

And Olive was kind enough to find some special time with him. She's a Daddy's Girl.

An Effortless Chord

This is one of those things I love about Pocatello:

It was just after six this morning. It was still very dark out, without even a faint glow of light spilling over the mountains behind my mother's home. The low, wispy clouds from last night had drifted away and the sky had the kind of clarity and depth that buckle my knees every time I see it. Mom had turned the Christmas lights on and their warmth, gold and red on the blue of the snow, cast a welcome glow through the trees and the empty flower beds. There were two kinds of wind, the big one roaring through the narrow valley of the Portneuf Gap not far from here, and the wind churning its way down the mountain behind us. The house shielded us from its bite but not the soft whine of its voice as it rolled through the washes on either side of us. And then, from the city five miles north of us, came the low bass hum of a train whistle. The trains used to be one of my favorite things when I lived here. You can hear them from anywhere in town, the loud clang as the cars lock together, the grind of their wheels on the track, and that groan of the whistle. On the rare occasions I stayed overnight at a friend's house, I would close my eyes and listen for the trains and imagine I was hearing them from the comfort of my own bed.

This morning, standing with Duncan in the silence of the far south side of town, the faraway wind and the nearby wind, and then the whine of the train, joined to form a nearly perfect harmony, a simple, effortless chord that caused Duncan to pause on the step, cock his head and listen into the darkness. I stepped away from the light of the house and turned my face up into the abyss of space and listened with my ears and body, and smiled as the memories of living here and the comfort of coming home, rolled over me.

I do love being home at Christmastime.

Mr. Popular

There is not a dog on this property who doesn't know me, or rather the scent of the treats I carry in my pocket.

This is what it's like nearly every time Duncan and I venture out. If only I'd been this popular in high school!





*Thanks to Dee for being there to catch the feeding frenzy

Not Enough Kisses

While my day typically begins around 6 AM, Duncan's doesn't start until an hour and a half later. I get up, check the internet news, scroll through Facebook, shower, prepare my breakfast and lunch, feed Olive and Pip, and then start Duncan's breakfast, which needs to rehydrate for thirty or so minutes before it's ready. Only when he hears the jingle of food in his bowl does he amble down the hall, the hair on the top of his head mussed up, a grin on his face. We hug, he stretches and bows, and then we venture outside.

It was a nice morning, a little grey but not as cold as it has been and the sun was trying its hardest to peek out from behind the clouds. The geese had collected themselves across the golf course and another enormous flock was swooping in from the south, their calls echoing between the frozen, yellowed earth and the misty sky above. Everything in our corner of the world was exactly as it should have been: quiet, serene, safe.

At 7:30 we reached The Glen where Duncan ran wide circles along the rim of the bowl in the earth, careening between the trees, stopping every once in a while to sniff the patches along their trunks where other dogs had stopped. His ears were high, as was his tail and the smile never once left his face. I knelt in the grass and watched as he sped toward me, his tongue lolling from the corner of his mouth.

"What?" I asked him as he danced to a stop in front of me, his front paws jogging up and down in the frosted grass.

And then he lunged forward and kissed me. Not a sloppy, wet swipe of his tongue, but a quick brush of his lips against mine. I laughed and repeated my question. "What?" He did it again, and then again, and then once more, slowly forcing me backward until I was sitting on my butt amid the brown pine needles on the cold ground. I laughed again as he moved forward and planted another kiss on my face. When I held up my hands he did it again and again and before I knew it I was laying on my back, his gorgeous face obscuring my vision. For a moment the clouds broke and I could see blue sky above him and golden light until they were once again blocked by the ferocity of his affection. His tail wagged back and forth against my leg as he climbed right up onto my chest, laid down and kissed and kissed.

"You're drowning me, Roo," I cried as he persisted, relishing the sound of my laughter in the safe silence of the morning.

At that moment, eighteen-hundred miles away the world was no longer silent nor safe. Twenty small children and six of their adult protectors were being murdered and it will be a very long time until silence returns to that community. My heart has been slowly breaking today as the magnitude of what has happened sinks in, at the knowledge that there are presents under trees that will never be opened, that people will be outraged and horrified but that ultimately nothing will come of this tragedy. This country cares more about its guns than its children, than health care, than the kisses of loved ones. I am cynical and bitter tonight and only Roo, laying next to me with his head on my arm, can offer any sort of solace.

I would not trade a single moment with my dog for anything, but I would gladly trade every one of the kisses he gave me this morning for the lives of the people in Newtown, Connecticut. I would do anything to undo the pain of that community, to make it all go away.

For Madi

Last night on Facebook I learned that our former neighbors and good friends Denise and Martin had to say farewell to their beloved Black Lab, Madi. It has been a very long time since we have seen them and much has changed in all our lives, but Denise, who was such a very good friend to me, especially during the early days of my anxiety, has always held a special place in my heart and is never far from my thoughts. 

Madi was Duncan's first friend. I'd been terribly nervous about socializing him as a puppy and it wasn't until we built our house and moved to Stapleton, befriending Denise and Martin, that his socialization really began. I didn't have much say in it actually. Denise is one of those magnificent people with a vibrant, take-no-prisoners spirit, and it was her confidence and good nature that allowed me to relax and let Duncan do what he was so supposed to do, which, apparently, meant racing tight circles around Denise's small front yard, chasing after and wrestling with Madi, who was patient and kind to him. She taught him everything he needed to know, and even took him swimming for the first time, and even after we moved all I had to do was say her name to send him, tail wagging, to the front door where he waited to be taken for a visit.

When I learned of Madi's journey across the Rainbow Bridge last night I went to Dunc, who was laying on the edge of the couch. I leaned down and whispered softly in his ear, "Roo, I'm sorry, but Madi is gone. She's no longer with us but maybe tonight on our walk we can watch for the new star in the sky where she is shining down on us." He listened to me, dropped his chin down low between his paws and sighed heavily, which made me tear up. A few minutes later he climbed down off the couch and ambled to his toy box where he dug through the contents until he found the toy he and Madi played with on their last adventure together, jumping in and out of the pool while Denise and I laughed and encouraged him to chase after the geese. It has been a long time since they have played together but I know he understood what had happened and needed time to grieve her loss in whatever way dogs do. We cuddled a long time, touching noses and crying, his paw resting atop mine.

We miss you, Denise. We miss Martin and Avery, too. And we will miss Madi. I am sorry for your loss but so thankful for the hours she spent with Duncan and the way their friendship cultivated our own.

Overheard

It was a glorious day, sunny and warm, over 70˚ with clear blue skies, a late Spring day much more than a late November one. The geese, when not congregating in the golf course and at the edges of the lake, were flying low overhead, the whites of their bellies reflecting the gold of the sun. Duncan and I ventured out several times, our feet too restless to stay inside for long.

On our last trip to the park a group of small children approached, their parents standing just behind them. They asked politely if they could pet Dunc, who sat nicely for them but turned his face into the sun and closed his eyes while four sets of tiny hands patted his back and rubbed his head.

"Look," one of the little boys said. "He has a rainbow collar. Maybe he's a leprechaun."

"No, stupid," a girl who was only slightly bigger than him scolded. "It means he's gay." She then turned to me. "I have a gay uncle. He wears all sorts of rainbow stuff. Is your dog gay?"

I looked up the nearest grown-up, a woman who was standing back smiling at me.

"I don't think so," I replied. "But his dad and papa are."

They all nodded and proceeded to tell me about all the gay people they knew, all while the woman laughed and listened.

It's a good world and I'm thankful not only to be a part of it, but that my good red dog takes me out into every day.

For What It's Worth

Today is the day.

Last night on Facebook I posted a comment inspired by Kergan Edwards-Stout and an article he wrote recently regarding his friends who were supporting Mitt Romney.

 

I thought long and hard about writing that. It's not easy to remove people from your life but if those people believe I am somehow inferior to them and don't deserve the same rights they enjoy and take for granted there really isn't any question about what needs to be done. I have no room in my life for such people.

Duncan and I have walked many miles together with you tagging along. He is a wise friend, perhaps the wisest I've ever been fortunate enough to share my life and travels with. His love is unconditional and uncompromising and he has taught me far more than I could recount in this post but his example shines through every moment we spend together. He treats everyone equally, something I strive to do every day. But I realized that my momentum must be forward and there is simply not enough room in my life to bring along those who disagree with the direction I'm traveling. If you are one of those people I'm going to ask that you smile one more time at us and then travel your own path. I'm going to ask you to leave. And perhaps one day, when your eyes have opened and you're truly ready to learn what it is I've spent all these hours writing about, we'll meet again. But until then, this has to be good-bye. Our paths must diverge.

I hate to lose anyone but my life and the rights I am entitled to are just too important to spend with others who do not share the same vision. That vision is one of unity and respect for all, for equal treatment under the law, not just for LGBT people, but for women and their bodies, the elderly, for people of all colors and backgrounds, for the poor, for children who seek a good education, for the sick and needy, the disenfranchised, for everyone who wants to realize their own version of the American dream. Barack Obama is the man who can guide us there, set us firmly on that path. His opponent and his followers do not share that vision.

Today I am asking you to vote to reelect the President and to ensure a brighter future for this country. I am asking you to do the hardest thing that can be asked of an individual: to do the right thing, the selfless thing. I am asking you to rise up to the potential of this country and to put the past behind you.

Go vote for President Obama. And when you're done Duncan and I will see you out there under the blue skies. We'll be waiting.

Endorsement

Tomorrow is the big day. 

It's been difficult not to think about, not only because of the endless stream of ads on television, but because each and every time Duncan and I venture out we are forced to navigate an army of signs in yards and adorning the bumpers and windows of cars on the streets (my own included). But that is not the only reason I have been thinking about it.

This election directly impacts my life and the people I love. This election is about more than which candidate is the handsomest or speaks the best. This election is about very real issues, such as health care, education, equal pay, a woman's right to choose, improving the economy, and of course, the one closest to me, LGBT rights. A lot of progress has been made to improve the lives of so many people these past four years, and to fix the mess the idiocy of the last administration left for this one to clean up. It's easy for people to overlook the accomplishments President Obama has made, especially for the morons who watch FOX "News" and allow others to do their thinking for them. It's easy to believe the Republicans who would have you believe he has done nothing to improve our lives, especially when his opponents in the Republican party worked so hard to obstruct every ounce of legislation he sought to push through Congress. It's far too easy to be a sheep and follow along without ever breaking stride and doing what is honestly right.

It took fourteen years (and a world war) for this country to recover from the Great Depression. You'd have to be an utter imbecile to believe the President could accomplish a complete recovery from the mess of Bush's Great Recession. And now we have this jerk, Mitt Romney, a supposed business man, who believes he can do it when he couldn't even manage Massachusetts when he was governor. Do not trust him. His devotion is to his church and his wealthy friends, not you and not me.

I love my partner. I have loved him for the past seventeen years and believe with all my soul we deserve the same rights married people everywhere have. I do not want to fear what would happen if one of us got sick or died. I want to be able to stand up in front of my friends and family and celebrate our relationship. I want to be treated equally. Those things will not happen under Romney. Rather, every gain we have made will be erased and soon we'll be further back than we were under Bush.

Four years ago I received a letter from my good friend David, who wrote:

This election has inflamed the best and the worst of this nation. We will, each of us, vote according to our character and collectively define the character of the Unites States. The election booth will become a sort of civic confessional in which we exercise our faith in this country. I vote tomorrow. I have waited a long time, and it will feel good to finally have my say.

I am asking you to vote according to your character in the hope that your vote will help define the character of this country. Vote for progress and equality, for the health of this nation, for a woman's right to choose and to be paid equally. Vote to reelect President Obama. If you're a woman who has the tiniest amount of self-respect, who supports Planned Parenthood and the good work they do over a wide range of issues, especially breast cancer prevention, if you're gay or love someone who is gay and want to see us treated equally and fairly, if you have children in college or about to enter college, if you want to ensure all Americans have access to health care, if you believe in helping those who are less fortunate, if you want to continue to see the economy recover and not slip back into the desolation of the Bush administration, if you have any morals whatsoever, vote Barack Obama.

Do the right thing. Do the patriotic thing. Do the moral thing. There are no questions. It's obvious.

A Very Real Scare

Duncan's trick or treat came a day early. It was a pleasant afternoon, warm and sunny, without a breeze, only golden light, caught between a low bank of clouds and the mountains, reflected off the leaves both below and from those still hanging on above. We walked without jackets, Ken and I, enjoying the warmth of the sun on our bare arms as we talked about our dinner plans, while Duncan ambled not too far ahead, sniffing for sticks to chew and spit out as he passed by.

And then it happened. We'd stopped to chat with a woman and her new chocolate lab puppy when Duncan, indifferent as always to other dogs, bit into a stick that decided to bite back. Somehow or another, as we talked and played and fed the puppy pumpkin treats, Duncan's stick got caught. He coughed and hacked and when that didn't dislodge it he began to paw at his face, twisting his head this way and that as he rubbed it against the grass where we all stood. We grabbed him and while Ken held his mouth open I reached in and felt around at the back of his throat but wasn't able to find anything. I scraped a few remnants of bark from his tongue but he continued to sputter and wheeze.

At that point I began to panic, suddenly very aware that I didn't know how to perform the Heimlich maneuver on my dog. Ken gave me one of his calm and reassuring looks and asked me to hold Duncan still while propping his mouth open. I did as he asked while he peered inside and noticed a small twig had lodged, not in his throat but against the roof of his mouth, caught between his teeth. He reached in gently and pulled it out as Duncan sputtered one last time, coughed and then buried his head between the two of us as though thankful we'd been there to help.

As we walked home I couldn't stop shaking. My knees were weak and all I wanted to do was get home and hug my boy to me. When I asked Ken, who's schooling as a vet tech originally led us to Denver, about the Heimlich Maneuver for dogs he said he couldn't remember. So I came home, looked it up online and thought it would be a good idea to share it here. Make sure you learn it and are ready should the situation arise. Thankfully it didn't in our case, but it's better to be safe than sorry.

Happy

The landscape belongs to the person who looks at it. (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

There is something about the sound of snow––the first real snow of the season––that, despite the change in temperature and the bland whitewash of the world, that seems to make it alright. It is a crisp sound, not quite musical so much as rhythmic, a delicate whisper as it alights on brittle, yellow leaves or sidewalks where only a few days before ants scuttled back and forth in their blind way, their evening shadows long and dark on the sunset gold pavement. It is a sound I have learned to love these past eight years on my walks with Duncan.

I did not want to go out. It took all my energy to get dressed this morning, to pull on my coat and mittens and take Duncan out into it. But he was sitting in the window watching it come down, his tail twitching anxiously, a very soft whine in his throat. He didn't want to miss a moment of it. So I knelt down beside him, put my arm across his shoulder and leaned in close to his ear. "I have never liked winter," I told him. "You can ask anyone who knows Papa and they will tell you I have always favored Spring, but winter is beautiful when you're out in it and I can't help but smile when you make snow angels. So we'll go outside and we'll both be happy together."

And we were.

A Change of Season

And so as Autumn comes on, as the nightly winds rattle and shake the leaves and needles from the trees, pulling their colors from the boughs and littering the ground with them, our morning walks have changed, too. Flip flops and t-shirts have been replaced with good, solid walking shoes, and jackets, sometimes even gloves. The frost crunches beneath our feet as we plod along, Duncan jogging ahead, his warm, little imprints a trail for me to follow along the hedges and fence line. Jeffrey's cats are no longer granted free reign and his patio door is closed, leaving Duncan confused by his absence. Jeffrey has been there waiting for him nearly every morning for the past five months, a handful of treats, a herd of squirrels eating the nuts he has scattered, the jays squawking in the ash tree above. Dunc waits for a minute, his paws propped up on the rail, his tail swishing softly back and forth until he realizes Jeffrey is not coming. He'll sniff around a bit, search out the nuts, and then amble along. It is sometimes difficult for me not to project my own feelings onto him, not to feel disappointed at this change in his routine, but Roo is quick to bound away, his ambling through the leaves making music for me to follow. There is much for him to investigate: the branches that have come down in the previous night's gale, the golden pile of leaves that have gathered around the trunks of the aspens, the silence of the golf course.

It is a beautiful time of year to be walking early in the morning, when the sun is still new and the air is crisp. I could not count the number of such mornings I missed before he entered my life and am thankful each day for the ones his presence has granted me.

An early morning walk is a blessing for the whole day. (Henry David Thoreau)

Afternoon Drive

Ken and I decided to take Duncan for a drive up to the mountains in the new car yesterday. It's aspen season, which is nice but not quite like I remember Autumn in the Shire-like Midwest, with its myriad shades of red and gold and oranges. Autumn in Colorado is nice and the aspens are certainly beautiful, their leaves making the most beautiful music as they sway in the afternoon breeze, but the color palette, with its two shades of red and the single gold of the aspens, is rather conservative compared to northern Illinois, and I haven't seen a single shade of orange.

But it was still spectacular, something we haven't done in a very long time. The air was cool and the roads were windy and narrow, but the Outback held tight and was as smooth a drive as I'd hoped. We rolled the windows down, held hands and listened to perfect mountain driving-music while Dunc leaned his face out the window and grinned a wide, sloppy dog grin.

 

Duncan seemed a bit nervous at the start of the drive, whining and pacing in the back seat but when I realized it was that time of the afternoon when we usually venture out to tend to business, I pulled over so we could take a short walk along the roadside and let him take care of things, which he did almost immediately. And from that point on everything was golden. No more whines, no more pacing, only sunshine on a very happy face.

These are the kinds of afternoons I wish would last forever.

Not Everything Fades

There is something about riding in a new car, not just the smell or the quiet mobility, or the perfection of the pristine, fingerprint and smudge-free interior, but the way it transforms our perception of travel. I mentioned it to Ken yesterday on my first drive when we ventured out to Best Buy to grab a cable for my iPod, a drive we have literally made nearly a thousand times. The trees, now fully in the throes of their transformation, were exactly the same, the other cars were the same, the dips and bumps and imperfections of the road were all the same, but the drive was completely different, as though we were seeing the roads, the people, the color of the sky through the branches, for the first time, like discovering a new town, some hidden away, shady, quiet place discovered while on vacation. Everything about it feels new and wondrous, full of a sense of discovery and delight.

My forty-five minute commute to work this morning, and the return trip home this evening, were much the same way, and I found myself not minding the traffic or the delays or the noxious odors from the tow truck I followed for nearly half the trip. I listened to a podcast, as I do every day, rolled the windows down and enjoyed the coolness of air blowing through my hair. The sunset seemed spectacular and when my friend Sean called I urged him to look to the sky and the sun sitting above the mountains and shadows of those mountains resting on the clouds behind them. I told him, "It's a sad thing that in only a few weeks climbing into this car will be an ordinary thing, my drive to work will become a chore once again, and everything will be as it was only two days ago."

And then I came home, changed my clothes and took Duncan to the park where the baseball diamonds were full and the fields were dotted with the running bodies of the children's soccer leagues. The sun slipped away and shadows became darkness, the air cooled and the sweetness of the grass rose up around us. And then I remembered that even though those moments of adventure in my new car will fade, every walk with Duncan is as vibrant as our first, that some things never dull with the passage of time, that our blessings are not measured by possessions but the bonds that hold us to those we love and those who love us back.

New Toy

So Duncan got a new toy this morning. Just a little sumpthin'-sumpthin'.

We took it for a spin before the weather got nasty and destroyed the shiny perfection and surprisingly, Dunc was not as happy as his papa was. Perhaps he takes after me a bit in that change doesn't always come easy. He whined and didn't seem too sure of his footing but hopefully it will grow on him. After all, there's a lot more room in back for him, enough for plenty of future road trip videos.

 Oh, and I like it, too. I think I'll keep it!

A Wise Friend

Autumn is not my favorite season, although this year the change in temperature has been more than welcome. After seventy-three consecutive days with temperatures above ninety degrees, the recent coolness that has descended upon us has seemed like heaven.

But today, after two days of rain and snow, clouds and the kind of misty drizzle that paints halos around the moon––when she's visible––Autumn seemed perfect: cool but warm enough to walk slowly through the park, to lay in the grass with Duncan and roll around while he bombarded my face with so many kisses at times I felt I was drowning. It was a bright and windless afternoon with the constant rustle of golden leaves falling from the trees at their leisure, making a twinkling sort of music that makes it almost worth it. The ground is nearly covered in leaves, and walking through them, trailing Roo, who slices and gallops through them with the kind of joy only dogs know, was like walking on a golden cloud, the sun dappling us from above and reflecting off a million, curling amber hands, each of them waving farewell until next year.

Recently I lamented the passing of Summer on Facebook and my good friend Kemia was kind enough to remind me, "My dearest Curt -- take a lesson from wise Duncan and embrace it with every fiber of your soul. A season reviled is lost, and that is a tragedy. There is beauty to be found in the hardship and struggle of winter, as well as in the quiet, white beauty it brings."

She is right, of course, but the first snow is a bitter and difficult thing. But I suppose as long as there are afternoons like this, with my best friend at my side, there is more than enough to be grateful for and to delight in.

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. (P.D. James)

Good Morning, Winter

Duncan, of course, was delighted.

Needless to say, I was not.

Good thing this is the weekend I make my annual batch of French Onion Soup. That should make things better.

The Price of Vanity

Duncan got a bath this afternoon, a nice one with mint shampoo and lavender conditioner so he'd smell nice. The sun was still high and peeking through the windows above the mountains, bathing the apartment in bright, honeyed light, perfect for hunkering down for a good long brushing and pampering. He's never been afraid of the tub, perhaps because he loves the toweling-off part of the bath the best. He leans forward, nose to the floor, rump high in the air, tail wagging, and snorts and grunts while I wrap the soft towels around his head and rub hard through his ears and over his face. And afterward, when he's fluffy and his red hair is standing on end, he likes nothing more than to lay down in a sunny spot and let me brush him out, first with The Rake, and then with the soft bristles of his other brush, which smooths everything out, lays it flat and makes him look his most handsome.

And then, of course, there's the walk which comes afterward, allowing him to prance down The Run to show off for Jeffrey and Cindy and Pepper, Soldier, the Shepard mix in the balcony he torments from below, and the two new bony little female Boxers which have moved in, Bruno and Barry Manilow. After that, it's time for a quick gallop through The Glen and a walk around the park where he can find a nice pile of leaves (of which there aren't many as it still feels like Summer here) to roll around in.

I was watchful on our last walk, careful to keep him from getting too dirty, wanting to enjoy the softness of his coat and its sweet smell when he cuddles up to me tonight. But as he brushed by some low shrubs a yellow, twisted leaf caught in the hair below his ear and jiggled as he walked away. I reached down for it to pull it free and only when it was captured safely between my fingers did I realize it wasn't a leaf at all but a spider, the kind that tormented me in my youth, a big yellow and black garden spider, also known as a writing spider. It writhed and wriggled, twisting until its legs caught on my thumb. I shrieked, as I'm known to do in such situations, and shook it free. It bounced into the grass and scurried away into the shadows while Duncan just looked at me in that way he has, like he wants to shake his head in exasperation.

After my adventure with the snake and the fly a few months back, it's all I can do to get Ken to join us on our walks down The Run. Perhaps its best if he doesn't find out about this little incident. Agreed?

47%

While I have never been shy about my politics (see the entirety of Fall 2008 or visit my Facebook page any moment of the day for the latest zinger), Duncan has never really announced his. In many ways we are opposites: I prefer to stay inside and mind my own business while Duncan loves nothing more than traipsing through the outdoors sticking his nose in any and all business he can find; while I am steadfastly nonathletic, Duncan is a bit of a jock, running every morning, bounding through the snow, swimming any chance he can get, doing anything and everything I've worked my entire life to avoid. Because of our differences I always sort of assumed he'd be a Republican (just to spite me, even though he's far too giving and compassionate), or worse, a "Libertarian" (as if such a thing really exists. It's like bisexuality, it's a myth that's perpetuated by chronic indecision. Make up your mind already!). 

So I was shocked this morning when he led me across the street, over the soccer fields and straight to the skate park, a place we hardly ever venture near. He had one of those purposeful looks on his face, ignoring the tall clumps of grass where the last traces of discarded food remains from last weekend's Summerset festival. He was a dog with a mission and he wouldn't stop until he'd taken me where he had to take me. And then once we arrived I completely missed what it was I was supposed to be looking at. I was focused, instead, on the man riding the giant mower which kept coming closer and closer, and the hoodlums who'd chosen to skip school in favor of a morning spent on their boards. But Duncan, ever patient and persistent, barked once and wagged his tail to get me to turn in his direction and finally spy what it was he wanted to show me.

And there it was. He was coming out as a good and decent Democrat, a believer in the power of the people (all people, not just some of them).

I couldn't have been more proud.

How could I not love a dog with such a clear message for his papa?

Turning

The season is turning, slowly and with hesitation, and surprisingly I don't seem to mind. After a grueling hot summer the cool, nearly cold mornings are a welcome relief. The helicopter seedlings are starting to shake loose of the maples and only a few leaves are beginning to change. The mornings are sweet and moist, and sometimes smell like mornings I remember from my childhood when my family camped overnight on the edge of some lake and I awoke in the stale, cold air of our tent. At this time of year I spend half our walks lost in some memory, revisiting the past, blissfully unaware of the dew that gathers on the cuffs of my pants even as it saturates Duncan's paws and belly. It is all glorious and exactly as it should be.

But the evenings are my favorite because there is this moment when we walk through the park, weeding our way through the soccer hoards, blocking out the infernal noise of the Columbine High School marching band with an Autumnal song I whistle over and over at this time of year, when the sky changes moment by moment and I am reminded every second how fortunate I am to live on the edge of the Great Plains at the foot of the Rockies. As the sun dips behind the tall peaks everything seems to go silent for a moment and the world sighs. The earth seems to open up in relief and all the fragrances which have baked there throughout the day are released: the sweetness of the grass, the coolness of the water, the heavy scent of the bark, from the stringy elms to the whispering aspens, from the gangly, awkward poplars to the regal cottonwoods. As we walk over the grass we pass through pockets of shivering cold air mere feet in diameter, like stepping in October, and then back out into the summer warmth of the day. They are like invisible polka dots that bring a smile to my face.

Duncan loves all seasons equally and plods ahead merrily, unaware perhaps, how inspiring his delight is to me and how much I love him for it.

One More Feather

We are getting through this the best way we know how. It helps to believe we did the best thing possible for Winnie every moment of her life––from the moment she stumbled into our laps, her Dalmatian spots and graceful, careful steps around her scampering, awkward litter-mates, including Pip, to the moment she closed her eyes for the last time while I held her in my arms, wrapped in my baby blanket, whispering close in her ear, "Papa is here, Bean. I'm here. It's okay. Find me again. I'll look for you." Our apartment is small and plenty full between Ken and me, Duncan, Olive and Pip, but the enormity of her absence is felt every moment, creating a much bigger space than I remember before.

Aside from myself Pip seems the most effected. I assured Winnie that he was safe, that I would look after him and make sure he always knows he is loved. We had the vet, Dr. Jason Cordeiro, come to our apartment to assist in her passing, sparing her the anxiety of being moved to an unfamiliar, sterile place away from the others. After she was gone, curled up on my lap, each of her siblings came to her, touching their noses to her nose, sniffing and then moving on. Only Pip lingered, standing over her protectively, his body taut and straight, unmoving, for a long time. He has stayed close to me ever since, snuggling to my chest, climbing onto my hip where she once laid, constantly reassuring himself that I am nearby. The night her ashes were returned to us and we placed her in the beautiful urn we picked out, Pip lingered long moments nearby as though understanding that his sister was back home where she belonged but unsure why he couldn't see her. Wednesday night, long after Ken and I had tucked ourselves into bed, Pip's screams pulled me, running, down the hall to him. It was a sound I'd never heard him make, a tortured yowl that was pained and desperate. I found him curled up on the arm of the couch looking at her urn, his body trembling. He ran to me when I appeared and let me carry him back to bed where he stayed curled against my shoulder all night. I stayed awake long after he and Ken had fallen asleep, each of them snoring in the soft way they have, stroking his back, running his paws between my fingers, kissing his ears and telling him he was safe, just as I promised I would.

I cannot tell you how fortunate I feel that Dr. Jason was the man who assisted Winnie in her transition. He was empathetic and kind, patient and sincere. He stayed with us for several hours, letting us take our time, laughing as we shared memories, holding our hands and hugging us when we needed it. Tonight I received a heartfelt condolence card from him that brought me peace even as it brought tears to my eyes. He is a good man, the kind of person I'd like to know better, and I am grateful for his presence at such an important moment in our lives. You can read more about the work he does on his website, One Last Gift. If you live in the Denver area and are in need of such services, I cannot recommend him enough.

We bought Winnie's urn at Hero's Pets, from a local artist, Lee Wolfe. Despite being larger than we needed, Ken and I knew the moment we saw it that it was perfect in every way, especially because of the feathers that were hand-painted across it, one more to give me strength as I move forward. 

I still call out her name, especially when I'm in the shower, where she liked to join me in the mornings, sitting safe and dry behind the liner, watching me, occasionally talking and rubbing up against the plastic while she waited for me to finish so I could spank her gently on her rump while she rolled on the bathmat. I still see her from the corner of my eye, especially in those places she spent her last days with us, curled up behind the guitar, sleeping peacefully on the chair, perched on the table drinking from her glass of water.

It's still there. Waiting for her. As am I.