Tiny

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Plates

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

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

And I, of course, find neither particularly appetizing.

Dreamy

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

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

Air

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

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

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

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

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

I felt vindicated and proud of him.

A Good Thing

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

This Happened Today

When I Am Among the Trees

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

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

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

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

(Mary Oliver)

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

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

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

This happened today. 

Starts with "A"

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

 

As usual, Duncan knows best.

Blue

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

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

Play

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

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

Red

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

I, of course, have been all over this.

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

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

A Simple Melody

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

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

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

The Witch

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nesting

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

And then this morning this happened

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

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

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



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

There at the Beginnings

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

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

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

"Not yet, huh?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Right Thing

Hero's Pets has been to Duncan what I imagine Santa's workshop at the North Pole would be to children. It is a place where he is greeted by a chorus of cheers and whistles from all the good people who work there. They love him as much as he loves being among them and when they see him he is rewarded with more treats than any belly should be able to hold, and pats and scritches and a reprieve from following the rules he has at home, like jumping up on counters and sniffing out goodies or barking so loud the windows rattle. For the most part I have allowed it, pleased that he has found a place he loves so much and where his love is returned so generously and whole-heartedly.

Two night ago, though, things got a little out of control. I took him in to pick up a treat (a nice ostrich tendon, which he loves more than bully sticks and pumpkin crunchers) and Rhetta––his favorite person there, who lives with five Goldens of her own, is a trainer and a behaviorist––decided she wanted to trim up his feet, tail and ears. She's an amazing person with an enormous heart, kind and generous and a fanatic when it comes to Goldens. She squeals at Dunc each time we enter, tosses him handfuls of treats, and loves on him like no one else, not even his grandma. And after a lengthy and restless trimming, which didn't contain nearly as many rewards as Dunc preferred, Rhetta gave him some goodies, which he readily snapped up. Unfortunately he also accidentally snapped up a portion of her finger. Rhetta squealed and jerked back, Duncan recoiled and cowered and I was mortified to witness the blood begin to ooze up from the finger where his teeth had found a nice, juicy spot. It wasn't a deep puncture but the blood kept coming and coming and I was embarrassed. Duncan has never bitten anyone, has certainly never drawn blood, and has always been the kind of dog I trust with the smallest of children and the newest of strangers. He is not a biter.

Rhetta was very kind and understanding and insisted that the fault was hers, that he was excited after a long period of doing something he didn't particularly enjoy, and that she simply hadn't pulled her finger away fast enough. I apologized more times than I could count but Rhetta insisted everything was fine. Roo and I left, humbled and quiet, my head hung low, his tail between his legs.

So tonight when I had to go pick up an order I'd placed I took Duncan but insisted that things were going to be different. I kept him on his leash, which I rarely do there, and told everyone that he was not allowed any treats. It was not that he was being punished for biting our friend, it was that I wanted him to learn some restraint when we visited Hero's. No one seemed happy about my decision, especially Rhetta, who asked me several times if I was sure I didn't want her to give him a treat. Duncan sat at my feet looking up at me expectantly, his eyes wide and puppy-ish, his tail occasionally swishing hopefully back and forth, but I did not relent. We left and as soon as I pulled out of the parking lot I felt like the worst papa in the world. Duncan was quiet on the ride home, quiet as we climbed the stairs, and went straight to his room (the canvas kennel in the corner next to our bed) where he could sulk in solitude (he takes after me in this regard).

I felt awful because I have spent so much time learning how to live in the moment, from the greatest teacher of them all, my best friend Duncan. He knows Hero's as a place of tremendous joy and excitement where he is treated, well... like a hero. And tonight I robbed him of that feeling. So I called the store and asked Rhetta if I'd done the right thing in trying to teach him restraint.

"Hon," she said. "Duncan loves coming here and it's okay if he has a place where he can break the rules every now and then. That's what makes it so magical for him. This is a place of profound joy. Why would you want to corral his joy? He lives in the moment. Let him have his moment."

And so I did what needed to be done. We hadn't been home five minutes before I put his leash back on him, loaded him into the car and raced back to the store before they closed. As soon as I opened the door Rhetta greeted us, squealed loudly at Duncan and set his tail to swinging and his feet to dancing. She threw her arms around me and said, "I was hoping you'd come back. I'm so proud of you. You did the right thing!" And then she lavished so much love and affection on Roo that the building practically shook with their joy. They danced and barked, ran back and forth while Rhetta tossed treats at him, opened up a bag of frozen raw meat and gave a big chunk to him, slipped him an enormous oatmeal cookie and even treated him to a big, juicy buffalo bone with blood and squishy bits insides. She loves him and he loves her and I love their love for each other.

And tonight, with Duncan nibbling on his buffalo bone at my feet, his tail wagging happily, a smile on his face, I know I did the right thing. I will never corral his joy again.

A Found Head

Duncan found the duck head on Thursday.

It was laying in a gravelly, oil-slicked puddle in the parking lot on the far side of the complex, forgotten but impossible to overlook. It was swollen with winter water, grey and sandy, its color somewhere between green and asphalt, and its eyes were gone, as though they'd never been there in the first place, and the beak tightly shut like the thing was trying to hold its breath.

We've been working (and working and working) on Duncan not eating things he finds on the grounds. A neighbor has been known to throw entire pans of lasagna outside for the vermin, pizzas, too, and once I found half a bag of raisin English muffins. As soon as I figured out who it was I politely asked them to stop as we don't want foxes and coyotes coming onto the property, and I especially didn't want any of the dogs eating the raisins. I have tried numerous tactics with Duncan to stop him from downing whatever he finds, but some days are better than others. On this particular day, The Day of the Head, I spotted it before he did and tried to steer him around the puddle where it lolled, wishing it had eyes to stare at the blue sky. If I hadn't been so vigilant he would've had it in his mouth faster than the bunnies he chases can duck for cover.

But Dunc wouldn't have it. He pulled and pulled (another thing we've been working on, although I fear the root of the problem may be his father, who lets him get away with that kind of behavior on their walks) and I finally relented enough to let him lean in and investigate. He inched his nose as close I would allow, then leaned even further, pulling his entire weight against the leash until his front legs were no longer touching the ground. I jerked him away but he looked up at me with those big, brown doleful eyes and I knew there was nothing more he wanted than to bring the head home to play with while I was busy working.

Needless to say it didn't happen.

The next morning the head was still there, although the water had evaporated, leaving only the finest crust of ice around it, a white ring of crystals and sand, a sad little grave even for a head missing a body. Again Duncan looked up at me, pleading with raised eyebrows and the saddest look a Golden can muster. He wanted it. Wanted it bad. And me, being the softy I am, agreed. I picked it up quickly, without looking, and stuffed it into my pocket.

And now, washed and sanitized, Duncan has made it his new favorite toy. It hasn't been out of his sight for more than a few minutes a day, and when he sleeps at night he keeps it tucked under his paws, nestled down against his big fluffy pillow and the blanket my mother knitted for him three years ago.

It is cute. Maybe even more so because it lacks a body.

Bath Day

The plan was to give Duncan a bath.

What I didn't count on was Duncan deciding I needed one as well.

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