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.

'Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy

As the end of the school year draws near, while most people are preparing for a season of laziness and bliss, shopping for swim suits and flip flops, the little hair that remains on my head turns whiter by the day. I am in full panic mode at work and can't seem to find enough time to accomplish the things that desperately need to get done. It doesn't help, of course, that this is also the time of year when I receive the most threats of death and violence to either myself or my car. Students attempting to sell their books back to the bookstore tend to get unhappy when I can't offer them more than they actually paid for the books. Most of the time I laugh it off, pop a few Xanex and go merrily about my day. Ah, the joy of working at a bookstore.

About the only thing that gets me through is knowing I get to unwind with Duncan at the park or down Leawood, or even Lilley Gulch. Prior to walking with him I'd come home, sit on the couch or the floor and brood over all my perceived failures. Now I'm able to cast them aside and re-tune myself. And as the weather gets nicer and the last of the snow and mud pull off the foothills I hope to take him for nice evening strolls up Ken Caryl Canyon. But until then I'm content with playing at The Glen, weaving through the various soccer practices in the fields across the street and admiring the lake from the top of Rebel Hill.
Today we climbed the hill overlooking the lake and just sat. It took most of the walk to let go of the tension but once we were there the sunset was vast and gold and all the world seemed amazing and full of magic. I'm convinced that work is a magic-free zone and if I can only make it through my time there the mountains, the warm air, the gentle scuff of Duncan's paws on the sidewalk and in the grass will be magic enough to rejuvenate me. Laying on my back and taking pictures of clouds sometimes does the trick too, especially when Duncan leans into frame to sneak a kiss.

The Styles With Which We've Grown Accustomed

When I was very young my mother and sister and I lived away from my grandparents and the rest of the family so trips home were special occasions. My grandmother and I were quite close and even after nearly four years there is not a day that goes by when I'm not keenly aware of her absence. Even as a child I knew that we shared a bond that––although not any stronger or more valuable than her relationships with her other grandchildren––was unique and powerful. I was thinking of one of her favorite stories, which involved my departure from Idaho Falls with Casey and my mother. We'd spent a long weekend with Grandma and Grandpa and when the time came to leave I was beside myself with grief. As we said our good-byes in the front yard I began to cry and became inconsolable. My mother practically had to drag me into the car, where even as we drove away I was racked with sobs. Several blocks from their home, Mom finally asked me what was wrong. "I didn't get to kiss Grandma's knees goodbye," I blubbered. My mother had no choice but to turn the car around and take me back where I did indeed hug and kiss my grandmother's knees.

* * * * *

There are mornings when leaving the apartment is almost unbearable, when Winnie and Pip are curled up in nice little balls around me on the bed, when Duncan is stretched out between us sleeping soundly and Olive blinks her eyes open when the alarm sounds and I stir. She takes turns sleeping on our two pillows and this morning when I turned and tried to get up she reached out her paw and touched my forehead as if trying to push me back down into a warm, blankety slumber. But the shower and tea beckoned and so I rolled out from under the covers and moved down the hall. The kettle took its time coming to a boil and it seemed the shower , too, was lazy in warming up. The sky was gray and even after the blinds had been drawn the morning light was still low and dim. I sat on the couch a long while, my big red blanket pulled up around my chin wondering if I'd ever manage to wake up. Everything seemed to urge me back to bed and although I was more than willing to go I knew I had to go to work in order to keep the animals in the lifestyle with which they've grown accustomed. Duncan was warm and cuddly outside and refused to venture too far from my side. We walked lazily along the edge of the property, each step in the wet grass a long sigh. When I brought him inside he sat in the doorway, cocked his head and frowned at me. I knelt down and he fell against me, licking my still damp hair. He smelled of morning, sweet like citrus and strawberries, and was as warm as a pillow. He did not want me to go and I did not want to. But I grabbed my bag and keys, kissed him on the head and locked the door behind me.

I crossed the parking lot and climbed into my cold car where I sat a few moments while the wipers pushed the water off the windshield. The sweet, licorice mint steam from my mug rose up and coated the windows so I turned on the air until they were clear. I backed the car from my spot and just as I was about to pull away I glanced at the bedroom window where the blue curtains I'd forgotten to pull hung long and limp. There was a rustling and then a sweet red nose appeared. I watched as Duncan pushed his head under the curtain and back out of his face. He sat there watching me watch him. I smiled and put the car into drive just as he reared back and placed both paws against the glass, his head still cocked, the frown still on his face.

That was all it took. I pulled over, left the car running and went back inside where he was waiting for me at the door. We laid down on the carpet and hugged and while his tail wagged and thumped loudly against the tile, he licked my arms and hands, then my head and face. When he was satisfied he climbed to his feet and plopped himself up on the couch, content at last.

Being late for work because the dog won't poop is one thing. Being late because he needed extra love is something else entirely. I'd gladly do it every morning without remorse or shame, for while I'm supporting him in the style with which he's grown accustomed, he's just as busy supporting me in mine.

Dreams and Devotion

Although Duncan didn't hide under the bed at my departure this morning, he wouldn't leave it. As I gathered my things, packed my lunch and mixed myself a nice iced chai, he curled up next to Winnie and wouldn't move, and even when I came in to scratch behind his ears and give him a kiss on top of his head he barely stirred. Now that he's gotten a taste of how his days could be spent, knows that not too far away is a land of tall trees, glorious water reflecting all the colors of the day and instant four-legged friendships, where dogs run free and everyone carries a tennis ball or two in his or her pocket, I won't be able to compete. Unless, of course, I call in the troops, which even Duncan, in all his infinite wisdom, is helpless against. They've shared far too many times together, battled afternoon boredom and the conspiracies of the cats, somehow muddled through together on long trips to and from Idaho, been steadfast friends during my weekend vacuuming duty. They don't go on walks with us, and these days several of them––the faceless and limbless ones, especially––have been relieved of duty, but he's fiercely loyal to them and can't resist their call.

As long as these guys are on my side, Duncan will always be true to me, and even though he won't get daily swims and trips to the backyards of my friends where he can consume seemingly bottomless bowls of their dog's kibble, his heart will belong right here at home.

(From left to right: Berry, Blue Bone, Baby, Bah-Bah and Buddy)

While Walking Riley

Walking someone else's dog is a bit like test driving a new car, one in which all the bells and whistles really jump out at you and make you wish yours was a little flashier or handled better on tight curves. A friend of mine has gone to Vegas for a few days and left me in charge of Riley, her eight-year old, big, sloppy-faced lug of a Golden. Duncan and Rileyy have spent time together in the past (exactly three years ago this week, in fact), when Heather left town and Riley spent a weekend with us. Duncan was still quite young, barely six months old and quite impressionable, so Riley, an older wiser dog, spent most of those three long days teaching Duncan all the bad habits I spent over a year trying to eradicate: propping himself up on the counter to sniff for food, barking at each and every person who walks by, chasing cats, that sort of thing.

Riley, everyone's best pal, is one of the kindest, happiest dogs I've ever had the pleasure of spending time with and I love him immensely. His face has whitened considerably, and now, where his big beaming Golden nose and eyes once were I get to kiss an enormous heart-shaped white nose.

The best thing about Riley is that he really knows how to walk. He doesn't tug, is willing to go wherever he's led and wags his tail the entire time. Duncan, in contrast, is all over the place, back and forth across the path, sometimes stopping for five minutes at a time to sniff one place, a tall clump of grass or the base of a lamp post. I could walk Riley for days and never stumble over him and never utter the words, "Leave it," which I say quite often to Dunc.

One thing I do enjoy about Duncan, however, is the clean-up. Since putting him on a raw diet last March, his Big Jobs have actually become quite small, like mouse poops on steroids. Riley, on the other hand, who lives on kibble (which is the dog equivalent of Frosted Flakes), has very Big Jobs which are not very solid and quite... fragrant. Cleaning up after Duncan is a quick and painless process and I don't need to breathe through my mouth at all.

I finally took Duncan over to Heather's to join Riley and I on a walk through their neighborhood and they took to each other like old friends. Riley is much larger than Duncan and tried to dominate him a few times, which Duncan readily let the old boy know was not acceptable, but other than that they got along fine.Several times over the past year Ken and I have daydreamed about adding a second puppy to our family, a little sister for Roo to teach and mold, but this weekend has reminded me that sometimes a good daydream is best left alone and not made into reality. Besides, I love my Dunc too much to share right now.

Homecoming

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

So Well

I will admit, I rushed through our walk tonight, and who besides Duncan wouldn't have done it, too? Today was our first real cold day of the season. It didn't snow and it wasn't windy, but not even the sun on the sidewalk offered any sort of warmth. It was a back-tightening cold, sucking the breath out and not even allowing you to convince yourself that the fresh air felt nice. It was dark when I got home and my ears and neck were pink before we'd even crossed Bowles. I decided to skip walking up the hill toward the playground to search for the owl we saw last week, a trip we've made every night since.

As we crossed the small ditch into the park and I dropped the leash, Duncan trotted at my side, waiting for me to throw his ball, which I'd purposefully left behind. I thought of all the things we know about and have come to expect from each other, no different than best friends.

I know that Duncan always pees in the same place near the gates that open onto Bowles and that he waits to poop until we get near the trash barrel just inside the park. I can discern his restless sniffing from his more serious, deep in concentration attempt to pick the perfect spot to go sniffing. I can also differentiate between whining at the door for fun from whining at the door because things are about to get desperate. Even in my sleep I know when to tell him to lay back down and when to get up and let him out.

When I get home from work Duncan knows that we're not about to go for a walk until I've changed my shoes. If I skip that process, as I sometimes do, he gets confused and seems surprised when I reach for the leash. He also knows when I'm taking him for a walk and when I'm letting him out for a quick bathroom break.

I know he will not get out of bed for his morning walk until after he's heard me turn off the shower, dry off and get dressed. Once I set the water on the kettle for my morning tea he ambles down the hall and waits until he gets to my feet to stretch and "Mmmmhrrrr" and blink at me with droopy, morning eyes.

Duncan knows that when we return from a walk I always kiss him on the nose as I remove his collar and leash. He'll sit back, turn his head up to mine and wait for me to say, "Good walk. Yay, Duncan" and plant one on the pointed top of his head.

I know that Duncan is just as surprised as me when Winnie brushes her head up against him and cuddles down with her hips touching his side. She won't admit it to either of us, but she loves him, and when she offers her occasional brief display of love, Duncan will lay very still, the cocking of his brow in my direction his only movement. He will chase Pip and let him climb all over him, and even though Olive nuzzles his chest, it is Winnie's approval and affection he is most surprised and rewarded by.

Duncan knows that if he wants the best spot on the bed he needs to wait until I am asleep before he claims it. I prefer him laid out against my chest, but once my breathing becomes deep and regular, he can move down toward the middle and stretch out long and flat–sprawl is probably a more accurate word–forcing me to one side or the other. He knows I won't disturb him and that's when he begins to snore.

Duncan knows when I arrive home from work and somehow manages to greet me at the door every day. I'm not sure if he's memorized the way the light slants across the grass and sidewalk outside the window or if he can hear me, but I've tried parking in different spots and avoiding the bedroom window where he surveys the world with the cats from the comfort of our bed all day. I've snuck in around back and even come home at different times, and he is always waiting with his bird-like chirrup the minute I open the door. The only exception to this was the day I came home to ensure I'd turned off the kettle and he was snoring into my pillows.

When I come home I know if there's been a rare accident by the way his head hangs low and guilty and he looks at me from under his eyebrows down the long length of his nose.

Duncan knows when I'm sad and will whine to comfort me. I can cry at a movie and he's immediately at my side, paw on my lap, nuzzling his face against mine. Once a few months ago I awoke from a dream in tears. I was barely conscious of it before I felt him turn over in bed, plant a big paws on my shoulder and lick the tears from my cheeks, offering a warm and comforting sigh in my ear.

Duncan knows that if he can stick his Berry or one of his play bones or his slobbery tennis ball into my open palm my fingers will almost always close around it and he'll be able to play tug with me. Occasionally during our nighttime games of fetch, hide and go seek or tug of war I'll play dead. Duncan will spend the first minute or so trying to insert whichever toy we've been playing with into my hand, but when that doesn't work he'll begin nibbling on my fingers, which evolves into licking, which will move from my hand to my head. When those tactics fail to rouse me, he'll gently lay his head on my chest and whine until the guilt forces me to stop and I grab him, throw my arms around him and and roll around on the floor.

I know that every night before bed it's time for a bath which means Duncan gets to lay on top of me and groom me as if I were his pup. He will lick every inch of my head, from my neck up to my crown. I've learned to let him do it, and the only place off-limits is my nose. Most people who've seen it shake their heads and wonder how I can stand it–some have even called it gross–but he's my best friend and it's something I've grown to accept and love.

We look after each other, Duncan and I, and that's how we've come to know each other so well.

More Precious Than Breath

Sally, a woman I work with, has had a difficult time with Joey, her Pomeranian, the last few weeks and what seemed relatively minor only a few days ago has left him on the verge of the death this afternoon, with his family considering euthanasia. Luckily his doctor doesn't think they've quite reached that point and so Joey's troops are rallying to his side, praying and sending all their good thoughts in his direction. Sally was obviously quite emotional about his condition for most of the day and even though we tried to offer what little we could in the way of sympathy and consolation, it was not enough. We could only watch her and reach out our arms to offer hugs and strength. Sally spent much of the day crying and in sitting with her and listening to her talk through her fear and grief, several members of the staff, myself included, were moved to tears as well.

Duncan was very much on my mind all day and I could not think of much else aside from coming home, taking him outside where he could lead the way and then finally, at the end of our walk, under the shade of the big cottonwoods, wrap my arms around him and kiss his precious red head. Duncan was quite lucky to have made it through The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006 as well as he did, but I can still recall how weak he was and the pitiful little whimpers he made as he laid on his belly in front of the fireplace, wrapped in one of my t-shirts and a blanket. Seeing him in that condition and being unable to explain to him what was happening or how I was trying to help heal him was one of the most frustrating experiences of my life. But the not-knowing was even worse. I can not imagine how frightened Sally is at the prospect of losing her boy, the one who only ten days ago was the picture of good health.

And so we walked, Duncan and I, and I watched his back as he pulled against the leash. I watched his shadow prance along beside him, lifting its leg and stopping to scratch behind its ear right along with him. I watched him watch the kids play kickball, his ears high and his body tense as he prepared to dive right into the game with them. I have said it before and I will say it many more times for the rest of my life, but I am blessed to have shared these three years with him at my side. He has been the most devoted of companions, tireless in his loyalty and love for me and I can not thank the universe enough for his presence in my life. If it were a choice between Duncan and the smell of Russian Olives, or the sight of the blossoms in the trees each Spring, or the magic of Christmas, I would forsake them all for the love of my best, bestest friend.

He is more precious to me than breath.

Slow Start, Big Finish

It was dark when I got home and Duncan was slow to rouse and greet me. He and Olive had curled up against my pillow and were fast asleep when I opened the door and slipped in. Pip mewed at me from the windowsill in the office, where he'd perched to watch the dogs and their people go by. Winnie was sitting on the edge of Duncan's food shelf, her face thrust deep into his big yellow bowl lapping at the water and sending big drops of it raining down on the carpet. 

I stepped down the hall to the bedroom and found Olive and Roo asleep. Olive jumped up at my arrival and began hugging me and nuzzling her chin against my cheek as she does when I come home, but Dunc rolled over, groaned and pulled his paw over his eyes. I pressed my ear to his cheek, gave him a kiss and whispered, "Is it time for a walk?" He stirred a little but seemed reluctant to move, perhaps thinking I was just a dream, that he'd wake and discover it was still bright morning and I'd only just slipped out the door. He laid in bed and watched me change clothes through sleepy eyes. Once I'd donned my coat,  though, slipped his new green bean treats into my pocket and was rattling the leash he jumped up and scampered toward me as if I'd only just walked in. He grabbed the leash in his mouth and pulled me around the apartment, his back half shimmying and swaying, the chirp alive and well in his throat.

Usually he settles down by the time we reach the bottom of the stairs and step out into the parking lot. Last night, though, he whined and chirped all the way down the sidewalk to the street, pausing only long enough to pee before resuming it all over again. We crossed the first four lanes of Bowles then stopped  under the trees on the wide grassy median to wait for the eastbound traffic to pass. Duncan sat right on top of my foot,  his weight warm and soft, watching me, waiting for me to give to all-clear. Traffic was heavy, though, and the wait was longer than I expected. Duncan must have thought he needed to earn a trip to the park so he immediately went through his routine: he barked, he sat up pretty then threw himself down onto his belly, jumped up, gave me a high five and when that didn't work gave me ten. He barked out "I love you" a few times, tossed himself onto his belly again, rolled onto his side, tried to say the blessing like he does every night, then gave me five more. And I just watched. No commands, no rewards. I was an audience for his long performance. When I glanced up, laughing and smiling at him, I looked right into the face of a small family whose car had been stopped at the light. Two small faces were planted against the back window and the driver, their mother, was beaming ear to ear. They honked and waved and drove on once the light changed, three pairs of hands applauding at his routine.

Master of the Game

I have been working on a game with Duncan. In short, I hold a treat in one hand for him to see, then pass it very obviously back and forth from one hand to the other, moving slowly so he can follow along. After a couple of passes I fold my palm up around the treat, hold both hands out for him to see and ask which hand the treat is in––a very rudimentary version of the shell game. While he is very good at picking a hand, he isn't so good at selecting the correct one.

We were sitting on the hillside in The Glen this morning, the sun already high and warm, the grass cool under us, practicing the game. After several attempts at picking the wrong hand I could see he was getting frustrated so I moved slower and even more obvious than before. When it came time to pick a hand, he once again selected the wrong one, sighing and harumphing as he does when the treat eludes him once again. But he is not the kind of dog to grow discouraged so I decided we'd go again.

This time though, when it came time to pick a hand, he surprised me. Once both my hands were held out in front of him, he leaned back and with both paws chose both hands at once. As I was about to laugh he leaned in, slobbered me with a big wet kiss right across my nose and both eyes, knocking me back. Both palms came open at once and while I was falling backward, he leaned in and slurped up the waiting treat. By the time I righted myself he was sitting in front of me calmly, licking the last of the crumbs from his chin, grinning ear to ear, his tail wagging.

Clearly he's mastered my little game.

Twenty-One Days

While most of the rest of this country has been counting the days until Christmas, literally killing each other as they vie for the best deals, I have been counting the days until the sun begins blessing us with its light earlier, longer and later. While Christmas carols have been serenading the masses, my ears have been focused on the music of the seasons, listening to the low, ghostly call of the owl which sits high in the trees and watches Duncan and I pass beneath in the darkness. Lights and ornaments have popped up almost overnight, on nearly every house, in all the windows and at each intersection. As magical as they seem, its been more incredible to watch the moon, now a crescent, pass through Sagittarius, Venus and Jupiter impossibly bright and close to one another, watching like anxious lovers. They move cautiously together, never meeting but close enough, it seems, to lean in and kiss, if only briefly. They are millions of miles apart, and even the constellation they dance through is made up of bodies which only appear to be neighbors.

On a night like tonight, when the snow was soft and wet underfoot, making the most wonderful crunching sound as Duncan raced circles around me through it, stopping every few minutes to throw his body into it, rolling and folding it around him like I do the comforter, sheets and blankets on my bed, I wonder if I'm alone in not giving a damn about the holidays while I look toward bigger and more profound events, or are Duncan and I just bodies which only appear to be close, circling the night and never quite making contact?

Courage Under Fire

This morning there was a great deal of activity in The Run. We were late for our walk and the squirrels and little brown and gray birds must have assumed we weren't coming. The place was thick with them. As Duncan darted ahead of me, sniffing the ground but being cautious around the first floor patio lair where the three snarling Harpies live, foaming and frothing and even attacking each other when they spot us. They weren't there, which was a nice thing for once, so Duncan had free reign of The Run and bounded far ahead to the low shrubs where the squirrels hide. I watched as they scattered before him, some darting up the trunks of the nearest trees while a few scampered under the fence toward the giant willow on the edge of the golf course. As I approached the little birds rose up in a great, frantic cloud  around his head and vanished into the lower branches above. After they had passed and The Run grew silent around us, Duncan stopped and stood still. I paused to watch him. He cocked his head as something in the shrubs stirred. A small brown shape moved through the twisted branches. I leaned in close to see if perhaps it was a bunny or an injured squirrel, readying my leash just in case. Only Dunc's nose and ears moved and then very slowly he leaned forward, his head vanishing into the brambles. I watched, not breathing, and saw the small shaped take a short hop forward and then exploded straight up at me, it's wings a flurry of motion. Startled I stepped back as the bird flew with all the power it could muster directly toward me. I saw it's tiny black eyes widen just as it struck me square in the chest and sent me tumbling backward. It bounced once, corrected and then flew away while I was still laying in a daze in the cold, brittle grass. A moment later, though, a familiar face appeared above me as Duncan approached, the smile broad on his face, his tail wagging wide from side to side. He leaned down, poked his nose once into the place on my chest where the bird had struck then bent forward and gave me a great big sloppy wet kiss across my cheek, an honor for my valor in battle and courage under fire.

Remember

There are nights when we walk and my mind reels under the unexpected and sublime delicacy of our ambling. I find myself thinking, "Remember the color of this sky, the way the darkness comes like a slow kiss from the east and the orange light in the west illuminates the mountains which you ignored this morning as though they were little more than props or backdrop and not the things which people from all over the world come to see. Remember how at night, resting in front of the sunset, they are somehow impossible to ignore, big and indulgent to the eyes, their definition sharp and as perfect as only something that took millions of years to create can be. Remember the sound of a single duck flying overhead, the beat of its wings desperate and never silent, and how troubling and anxious the flying life of such creatures must be, not at all the serenity of the hawks which ride the thermals over the vast stretches of the golf course. Ducks in the water, though, paddling along the shore, breathing in the last rays of the day and exhaling the silence of night, are just as inspiring as hawks, no less spectacular than any creature living in this world. Remember the frantic scramblings of the rabbits to escape Duncan's playful lunge, and the one who came back, slipping under the chain link fence to stare at us and tease, retreat when provoked only to return again. And again. And again. Remember the silence and the emptiness of the park and how it felt like we'd earned it, this opportunity to be alone there once again with only the very soft crunch of the pads colliding from the players on the high school football field to remind us we are not alone, only distant. Remember, Curt––do not forget––the owl sweeping low over your head, its squat body gliding effortlessly on impossibly long wings over the snow, leaving behind neither sound nor wake as it passed. Remember Duncan running and running, free of his leash, across the field, chasing a mouse and then losing it. And the way he threw himself on his side and rolled, a grin far more wide than the sunset on his face, and the way the light caught his coat and was reflected all around, as though he were the setting sun and the coming night. Remember the footprints he left behind as he crashed forward, and how you refused to step on them and erase his path, knowing that in some bigger sense his walks in the park could never be erased because in a strange way the park loves him as much as he loves it. Remember how when Dunc had exhausted himself he laid down and spread his paws before him and watched the day slip into the past, seeming to memorize it and savor it as only the poets do. Remember these things. They are important. They will sustain you and make your life all the more rich for having walked it, loving and not forgetting a single moment. A single, quiet, gifted moment.

Love Song to This Night

Don’t you write it down
Remember this in your head
Don’t take a picture
Remember this in your heart
Don’t leave a message
Talk to me face to face
Talk to me face to face
("Dead Man's Hill" Indigo Girls)

I wish you could have seen it. I wish your hand was in mine, balanced amid the heavy stick I carry, with its pale bark, smooth except for the places on the ends where Duncan chewed before I realized it would make a fine weapon should a situation arise which called for a weapon. Your hand would've felt warm and of a good weight, although Duncan would've pulled us, anxious as he always is to get to the top of the hill, and we would've had to adjust and tighten our grip just to keep touching through our gloves and mittens. But we wouldn't have minded because the sky was so gloriously pink and gold, and the silhouettes of those two kites, black against the brilliance of the sunset, would've pulled us as anxiously as Dunc. There was wind tonight, but we would've laughed into it, glancing at each other and not speaking, listening instead to the melting of the day and the flapping of those kites on their delicate strings as the wind caught and pulled them. And there was the laughing of the children, too, tiny captains of their ships who did not want help from the shape of mom or dad–their bodies were dark against the sky and nothing but shadows of big people. Not children. But it was time for them to go and so each of them reeled in and reeled in, a quick twisting and heavy work for small wrists. The kites fought, or the wind fought, it was difficult to tell which, especially with the sound of the fabric slapping against the air and struggling like a fish on a hook. But slowly they descended and for a moment I forgot I was standing, holding my own kite, a ground kite, red and warm and four-legged. I forgot my feet belonged to the earth and imagined I was up there, tethered to a string and struggling to stay afloat amid all that color, the explosion of the day against the fist of night. I didn't want to come down. Down is not in my nature. I belong here, high above the hill and the lake on the edge of the mountains with people looking up rapturously at my flight. But that child pulled and pulled and I could almost hear heavy breaths and the struggle of the tiny heart as it worked and worked that flapping air fish. The kite came down, losing its silhouette and becoming a thing of color, drab compared to the sunset, manufactured and plastic, its illusion blown away with the wind, its tails little more than long, thin streamers of a sliced garbage bag. No wonder it fought to stay aloft. Some things, as Monet knew, look better from a distance, behind a fog, slightly out of focus. Some things are not meant to be seen up close. Cautiously the child reached up, caught the kite at the place where it met the string and I swear I could feel that tiny hand on me, pulling me to earth, gently keeping me from crashing into the brittle grass. Standing there I realized I'd been holding my breath, which is why it would've been good to have you there. You would've said, "Curt, breathe," and I would've. And once that moment was over it would've been nice to see your face painted in sunset and to turn with you and walk back down the hill, the east dark before us, Orion already peeking up over the plains, the moon above, a flock of geese taking flight from their sanctuary on the baseball field below. How glorious it would've been to have seen them from the other side, the side facing the sunset, all those heavy bodies flapping and struggling for flight, resisting gravity and its sirenous kiss. With you, in this night, walking would've been like flying and the memory would last forever.

Not Alone

The morning my grandmother passed away last week I spent some time on the phone speaking with my cousin Cookie, who I have not spoken with in several years. Cook, like the rest of us, is suffering the grief of losing our grandmother, but she is also struggling with the additional nightmare of having recently lost her home (the house my grandfather built) in a fire. She is a brave soul, though, strong and smart, and although it's not immediately apparent how she will manage, I know she will. Her faith alone will carry her through and beyond.

She was grief-stricken, sobbing and frightened and completely exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to race home to Idaho and help her family in any way I could but all I had to offer were my words and my good thoughts carried on the wings of imagined butterflies in her direction. I was still numb from the news my father had delivered only an hour earlier but Cookie was expressing everything she felt that cold Sunday morning.

"I'm so glad you're not alone," she said as she finally began to compose herself. "I'm happy Ken is there for you." We had never discussed my thirteen year relationship with Ken and this was her way of telling me she loved me no matter what, that she understood.

"Oh, Cook, I'm sorry," I told her. "Ken and I separated last February. But don't worry, " I offered after a momentary silence. "I'll be okay."

There was a longer silence and then her grief broke through again. "Then..." she cried, her words coming in big, heaving gulps. "You. Are. Utterly. Alone. There."

I hadn't felt alone until she'd said it and then suddenly there it was, an enormous gulf between me and the rest of the world. There was no one to rush to and throw my arms around, no one who knew my grandmother and could cry with me, no one who understood what a unique and special voice had finally fallen silent.

The rest of the week was extremely difficult, not only because I was grieving but because I came down with the flu and spent much of my time in bed, Duncan and the cats curled around me while I shivered in my sleep. My sister traveled to Fargo to be with my dad, sharing stories and reminiscing, consoling one another. I stayed home and felt sorry for myself, resenting my flu and the anxiety which kept me grounded and unable to travel. And I felt truly, "utterly" lonely, still too numb to cry much, too sick to care.

And then tonight Duncan and I strolled through the park. The soccer kids and their wretched parents were wrapping things up. Duncan had pulled an enormous branch off of the big willow and was happily prancing through the leaves and across the field with it clutched firmly between his jaws. I chased after him and finally settled down next to him while he chewed and gnawed. His face was rapturous, eyes closed as his teeth slid up and down the thick pole, peeling the thin, papery bark away before plunging into the depth of the green and golden wood. He rested one paw on my hand as I laid on my belly next to him. The sun had drifted behind the mountains and while the sky was bluish white the clouds caught the last of its beams and exploded in pink and purple above us.

I don't know how long I slept. It couldn't have been long because Duncan hadn't turned away and his paw was still curled around the back of my hand. The park was nearly empty, though, and the color in the clouds had melted. The sky had darkened just enough that a few stars had begun to peek out. The grass beneath me was warm and even the air had yet to cool. I did not want to lead Duncan back across the street to our small apartment, did not want to stand in the kitchen while I ate alone. I did not want to curl up in my bed tonight with no one there whose arms could fold around me, someone who could kiss the top of my head while I slept. I only wanted to roll over, lay on my back with my good dog's paw resting in mine and watch the stars, remember my grandmother and her laugh, her refusal to smile, the smell of her mint gum.

Duncan rolled toward me, spooned up against me and licked the top of my head. He smiled into my face, that big, hearty warm smile of his. The world may be a lot less friendly without a grandmother there to love, but it is certainly not empty.


I am not alone. And I am very much loved. Thank Dog!

From my Journal The Book of Delights: Quiet

Quiet. 

There was this moment this afternoon while walking Duncan, when even as the clouds seemed to lift a little, and the sun seemed a bit brighter, that the snow started to fall. Despite the parking lot being full of cars that belonged to people who, like myself should have been at work but have been quarantined inside for an unknowably long and uncertain time, we were the only ones out walking and it was another perfect moment shared between my dog and me.

When the snow first came, muscle memory seemed to kick in without my even being aware of it and I pulled my hood up over my head. We walked on, Duncan tripping in the slush and me drawing smily faces on the hoods of cars as I do after a good snowfall. I was listening to music on the Beats I wear around my neck when we walk. There came this moment between songs, this long silence when all I could hear was the world being the world in a way that I’m not sure I’ve experienced before. It was the middle of the day in a city covered with wet roads and I couldn’t hear a single car cutting its way through the streets. The only sound was that of the snow falling onto more snow, a soft rhythm that normally goes unnoticed, especially on what should be a busy Friday afternoon. A gentle weight alighting on another gentle weight, like a whisper or a kiss blown from one set of lips to another. Hardly a sound at all. But there it was, imperceptibly loud, cacophonously mute. I pulled my hood back, turned off the music, and just stood a long moment on the sidewalk, Dunc at my side, his nose nuzzling the treats in my left hand. I turned my face toward the brightest spot behind the clouds, closed my eyes, leaned back and let the snow fall all over my face as I just listened to the goddamn blessed quiet of it all. 

Yes, the world has been much quieter as of late, but you’d never know it through the fear and confusion, the anxiety and fist-clenching paranoia. But it was suddenly silent in an unexpected way. So I sat down, laid back in the snow, enjoying the cold of it as it crept up under my jacket and into the waist of my jeans, stinging the small of my back, biting my bare neck and naked ears. Dunc stood over me, looking down with that smile of his, as though basking in my moment of realization, of all the lessons he’s been teaching me these past fifteen and a half years. I laid in the snow and smiled and cried and laughed when he insisted on leaning down and kissing my face over and over and over again. And eventually he laid down beside me, if for only a moment, and we enjoyed the quiet together, a well-earned reprieve from the noise rest of the world.

Rainbow Bridge

I'm sad to report that Joey, companion to my friend Sally and her husband Mel, crossed the Rainbow Bridge last night. His vitals were good and strong but after numerous surgeries and no clear diagnosis, Joey made the decision for Sally and her husband, who had struggled with it the past several days. Shortly after they arrived, they each gave him a farewell kiss and held him as he took his final breath. The family is understandably saddened by the loss of their courageous little companion. The people at work, who have been offering their support and encouragement to Sally, were also sad to learn of Joey's passing.

Having endured Duncan's Great Yarn Crisis of 2006, a portion of which was spent at Alameda East, where Joey fought most of his battle, I know that caring for a pet under these circumstances can be quite expensive. I was lucky in that Team Duncan was able to offer financial support when Ken and I were unable to manage the cost of his medical bills on our own. Without their help, Duncan would not be with us today and the stories and thoughts I have shared with you for nearly a year on this blog would not have been possible. I am in debt to their generosity and compassion.

I know that these are difficult times we live in and that with the rising cost of gas and food it's hard to find any extra money, but I spoke with Lisa at Alameda East and learned that Joey's medical bills are considerable, especially since Sally and her husband are on a fixed income. It is my hope that with even the smallest of donations we can help them, even if only a little, to offset these expenses and give them time to grieve their loss rather than worry about money. If you'd like to donate (even $10 or $20 will help!), you can do so by credit card or check. Credit card contributions can be made by calling the hospital at 303-366-2639 or you can send a check to:

VCA Alameda East Veterinary Hospital
9770 East Alameda Avenue
Denver, Colorado 80247

Please mention Joey's name, as well as the name of his companions, Sally and Mel Almendares. Their client ID number, which I'm told will expedite the process, is 121374.

If you're unable to contribute but know of any organizations that help provide relief for families on fixed incomes who have suffered the loss of an animal companion and the high veterinary bills, please share those with me as well so that I can pass them along to Sally and her family.

Thank you for your support and kindness.

Samaras

We walked early, perhaps only to catch the last fleeting signs of August and the Summer we are fast leaving behind. I dread the shift into Autumn, which, perhaps, is the very cause of my fierce love for Summer. I have spent much of the past three months memorizing the colors and textures, the scents and shades of the world because they are the only things which buoy me through the bleeding sunsets of Autumn and the naked bones of Winter.

Little has changed, of course, except perhaps for the sky, which seems to have pulled a little further away, is still big but in a more distant way. Summer skies, intimate and near, heavy as berries, are the kind you can almost reach up and touch, rub with the tips of your fingers, staining them with blue residue. September skies retreat from touch and look down on us at a great distance, cool and reserved, uninterested in our meager goings-on.

It seems only a few weeks past that the samaras were still pink and curling, heavy with juice, the tree limbs drooping under their collective weight. Walking among them, bending down to step through the dusk-lit caves created by the arced boughs on which they rested, I imagined them the fat fleshy thumbs of garden gnomes, captured by marauding trolls in the early hours and hung up to dry like trophies or warnings.


Now they are dust chimes rattling in the breeze, their music and life blanched by August's breath. Many of the trees, standing their full height for the first time in months, have shaken them loose, littering the ground at their feet with fossilized brown paper dragonfly wings.


But many, the sturdy ones, still cling in tight fist-like clusters to the branches on which they've hung for so long, flying in that unique way that belongs to leaves and kites alone. And when they do finally decide to let go and fall, to mingle with the sweet embrace of gravity before they kiss the earth, where they will rest forever, they delight the eye of children, fluttering in splashes of gold which whirl and spin wildly like the rotors of nature's helicopters, softening their landing as they hum the last bars of summer's song.

Roadside Affection

Duncan and I had a little disagreement over direction this evening after our walk. It was a cool night, the first in a month, the skies were very low and the wind, leftover from last night, was blowing hard, catching the drops of rain from the afternoon storm, pulling them from the grass and tossing them in our direction. Neither of us had eaten and so we turned into the apartment complex and started down the road toward home. I offered to swing by the long grassy lane between two buildings to hunt for bunnies. It's a prime spot, especially on a cool night like tonight but Duncan wanted only to stand in the middle of the drive. I tugged on his leash and he pulled in the opposite direction, actually leaning away from me, his body angled away. "C'mon, Dunc," I said, and tugged again. When he refused to move I offered to take him home, the direction his body was pointing but again he refused to budge. A Land Cruiser idled up and stopped while I pulled on the leash some more. "Duncan, come!" I said, dropping my voice into its lower register, The Papa Voice. Unfazed, he looked away. I pulled again and looked up at the driver, offering a shrug and an apologetic smile. She waved and laughed back, content to watch the show we were providing.

I knelt down next to him. "C'mon, buddy. This isn't cool." He refused to look in my direction, staring instead at the grill of the waiting SUV. "Duncan," I said again, deep and loud and frustrated. "Let's go," and just as I moved to stand, reaching out for his collar to pull him out of the way, he turned quickly and licked the tip of my nose, wagged his tail and trotted away, leaving me stunned but smiling where I'd been kneeling.

Sometimes when you just want to kiss someone you'll do anything to have the chance.

After the Storm

This week of storms seems unending. I sit at work and venture out every now and then to take a break and cast my eyes to the south and west, along the base of the seemingly ever-greening foothills, black against a treacherous sky, knowing that somewhere in that direction, under the menace of darkness and flashes of lightning, Duncan sits panting alone in the kitchen or on the floor of the windlowless bathroom, his body pressed against the cool of the ceramic tub. Sometimes it is all I can do not to climb into the car and race home to check on him, to kiss the top of his head and let him lay on my lap. But we have the Thundershirt and his herbal drops, and the music I sometimes leave playing on the stereo before I leave in the mornings, something just loud enough to drown out the sound of the thunder. I watch the flashes move from the clouds to the earth and see the gray smear that is falling rain and remember the last thing I said to him in the morning before I left: "Please know you are safe. If you hear the thunder it is only the universe saying––loudly so you're sure not to miss it––that your papa loves you, that he is looking out for you and won't let any harm come to you. It is the sky reminding you how greatly you are loved and nothing more."

I worked from home today so when our afternoon storm rolled in from the north, following the line of the range until it flattened out over our corner of the world, I was there for him. I pulled the blinds and turned on the fan, hummed "Nights in White Satin," a song Ruth put into my head last night, worked from the couch and let Duncan spread out under the coffee table, my feet securely tucked under his soft belly, my toes tickling his ribs while he snored. He did not stir, did not pant or pace, merely laid against me, breathing softly.

After it passed, dissipating and spreading thin over the east, a spill of milk on a vast blue table, the last of it lingering playfully against the mountains, painting the sky orange and vivid gold, we ventured out for a roll in the grass and a last look of the fading day glowing over the rooftops and the mountains.

There is calm in togetherness, a reassurance that only silence in shared company can bring.