Who We Saw Today

Until a month ago Brady lived just a few doors down from us. He and Duncan became good friends and it was Duncan who inspired Brady to finally adopt his own dog, Roxie, a couple of years ago. Even though we haven't seen them since they moved in March, Duncan has stopped on every walk to stare up at Brady's old balcony, waiting for an appearance by Roxie or the cat, Fatty or his Uncle Brady who likes to call down to him, "Duncadunc!" Sometimes if I'm lagging behind he'll trot up the stairs and sit patiently in front of Brady's door and just wait, not moving except to wag his tail.

And that's what he did tonight so I called Brady and asked if I could bring Roo over for a quick visit. "Do you want to go see Uncle Brady?" I asked and watched as Dunc charged across the parking lot to Brady's old building, marched up the stairs and plopped down in front of the door. It took some coaxing to get him back downstairs and loaded into the car, and then once we were on our way he whined the entire drive, unsure of what was happening, why I'd mentioned Brady, and where we were going. But once we were there and Duncan figured out who we'd come to see his joy couldn't be contained.

He ran through their townhouse, dragging his leash behind as he investigated the kitchen, the bathroom, the tiny basement, all the bedrooms, and then finally the backyard where he got to play ball with Brady and Roxie, barking loudly whenever there was a lull in the game. Dee, Brady's girlfriend, and I sat on the patio and watched them cavort, smiling at how happy they were to see each other. Even Roxie, who has been known to get a bit territorial, didn't mind his presence, and when she wasn't following him around, was busy sneaking treats from me.

I am not good at getting away from home as often as I should. I am a creature of habit who is very aware of his comfort zones. Brady and I both struggle with anxiety and have helped each other through dark periods more times than I could count. We have leaned on each other when it seemed there was no one else to lean on and I have missed him terribly these last four weeks. But despite that I haven't driven the six minutes it takes to see him until today, and that was because of Duncan, who always seems to know what is best for me, what I need to lift my spirits, what will lighten my heart. It is good to have a dog who knows who the good people are in my life, and cherishes them as much as I do.

Alone

"Never say there is nothing beautiful in the world anymore. There is always something to make you wonder

in the shape of a tree, the trembling of a leaf." (Albert Schweitzer)

It snowed today, one of our frustrating but predictable April snows, big and fluffy. It will continue to snow, off and on, for the next three days, and then hopefully we'll be able to put winter behind us and get on with the business of Spring, my favorite season. Last year at this time the trees were in full bloom, pink and white, and the air was filled with sweet fragrance, but this year the trees are hardly budding.

This afternoon, after leaving work early in a futile attempt to beat the traffic, Duncan led me down The Run to play in The Glen. Halfway down, beneath the maple that rises up near the balcony which used to belong to my friend Brady until he moved two weeks ago, a single leaf had come to rest on the surface of the snow, somehow still golden and crisp, its edges sharp and as new-seeming as if it were October instead of April. Duncan galloped right past it but I paused and reflected on the long winter days and nights, the bitter wind of the past few days, and the strength of that lone leaf as it clung to the tree it had known as home for so long. Why it chose today to fall instead of holding on a little longer, until a new family unfurled around it and protected it from the elements I'll never know. Perhaps it wanted only to fly and spin, just once, among the thick flakes which drifted from above, to realize the wonder that had perplexed it in the long, lonely months it has been alone.

Strange Melodies

Mosquitoes have never bothered me (except, as my father will be quick to point out, in North Dakota, where the things are as big as hummingbirds and bleed me like an over-zealous, rookie lab technician). In the quiet, northern Shire-like suburb of Chicago where Ken and I lived, where the air is often more moist than the ground, the mosquitoes are thick and relentless, but they ignored me in favor of Ken, whose Yooper blood must be sweeter and flow easier than mine. Often in the early evening we would take our two Goldens, Nikki and Ashley, out to one of the many nearby swampy forest preserves for an quiet walk along the tree-lined trails, only to find ourselves drowning in swarms of frantic, biting bugs. Ken would hurry ahead, the dogs running along beside him, his arms and legs flailing while I merely brushed them aside, away from my mouth and eyes, without worrying about my exposed arms and legs, an amused smile on my face. I'm quite proud of the fact that they find me unsatisfying because I never have to worry about their irritating and itchy aftermath.

Tonight, after the sun had set and the world was busying turning from blue to grey, after the air had cooled from 95˚ to 88˚, Duncan and I trekked down The Run hoping the moist grass on our feet would cool us off. Despite the unmoving air a low bank of dark clouds had moved down from the north, trapping the day's heat and cooking us slowly. There was little relief and so we hurried through the long grass. Almost instantly we stepped into a thick cloud of mosquitoes. Duncan dodged below them, but I felt them brushing against my face, sliding over my glasses, hovering near my ear, alighting briefly on the back of my neck. I paid them no heed, brushed them away and pressed on in the hope of passing through their city-sized population once we reached the clearing below Brady's balcony.

We paused a moment for Duncan to run his snout along the line of shrubs and through the fresh, red mulch which had been spread out just last week. I stood nearby, watching him and looking out on the last of the day's light when something big brushed along the top of my head, barely stirring the hair. I swatted at it and turned as a dark shape swept down from one of the three aspens that grow there. It buzzed past my chest, close enough to feel the passing of its wings and then spiraled awkwardly back up into the night. I followed it as best I could and was shocked to discover that we'd stepped from a cloud of mosquitoes directly into a swarm of bats.

They were small things, jittery and even less graceful than the hovering mosquitoes, but their numbers seemed just as vast. Duncan sat back and watched them spin and collide around us while I stood dumbstruck as they circled and brushed against me. I could hardly see them through the dark until they were right before me, in my face, stirring the night around me, snapping at the insects that seemed to have lost interest in disturbing our walk. I could hear them, their high-pitched voices rising like strange, synthesized harmonies, nearly inaudible around us. Eventually, though, as their numbers increased and they came closer, I tightened my grip on Roo's leash and pulled him from our spot under the decades-old aspens and out into the parking lot, which was warm but clear, tame and silent. We walked slowly home, Duncan focused on each and every pebble before him while I scanned the dark sky and listened for strange melodies.

The Hawkling

It has been a long day, in large part because my dog has a keen eye, an enormous heart, and a papa who pays attention to him when he needs him to do so.

I was up a little before six and even though I tried to stay in bed and pretend I was still asleep, Pip and Olive, who must know the sounds of my breathing, both awake and asleep, were quite insistent about having their breakfast at the crack of dawn. So, after much coaxing and chin nuzzling, I climbed out of bed, fed the cats, who scurried around my feet and yowled in a near-perfect cacophony, got dressed and took Duncan out for our morning gallop through the park where we tend to the bunny roundup and play fetch until our bellies get the best of us and summon us home where we can eat our own breakfast.

It was a cool morning and the clouds were low but busy melting away as the sun rose higher in the bleached white sky. We had no shadows when we ventured out but by the time we returned an hour later they had grown into dark, solid things and the heat of the day was strong on my arms and cheeks as we ambled down The Run. The clouds had slunk away over the eastern plains but I could see fresh, white ones, whose bases I knew were dark, gathering just over the tallest peaks to the north and west of us. There would be good weather for much of the afternoon, but I knew the clouds would return before the sun would set on the other side of this day and from the look of them they would not remain silent.

The bird was sitting in the grass, unmoving and doing its best impersonation of a squat, round stone or a protuberance of Aspen root. I stepped right over it and continued on my way. It was only when I'd gone fifty or so feet that I noticed Duncan was no longer beside me. I turned and spotted him laying in the grass not far from Jeffrey's patio, his tail wagging, his ears up high and his eyes bright enough to catch the morning sun. I whistled and patted my thigh, his signal to come back to me, but he didn't. He barked softly and leaned his nose down into the tall grass to nudge something resting there. I saw a small brown shape lurch up and back uneasily away. I thought it was another bunny and hurried to him where I saw the baby hawk looking back up at me defiantly. Duncan's tail thumped again but he did not move and I did not think to put his leash back on him. After all, this was the dog who was twice kissed by a rabbit and then rescued another last year, carrying it like a kitten in his mouth.

When I leaned over it to check for wounds, it spread its wings and hissed at me. It's bright feathers looked fine, his legs strong and solid, his eyes bright and alert. His only fault, it seemed, was his reticence for flight. Still, with Jeffrey's adopted feral cat lurking about I thought it best not to leave him in the middle of the grass so I scooped his soft weight into the palm of my hands and placed him in the deep shadows of the low shrubs where the gray and brown little birds roost and sing. I logged a call with the Wildlife Division of the State Highway Patrol and told them I'd found an injured hawkling and then spent much of the next two hours sitting near the shrubs, my eyes scanning the shadows along the edge of the building for the cat. Duncan sat next to me, rolling on his back, his paws scraping away the last of the morning's clouds, his big pink tongue lolling out. Once or twice he peeked his face into the shrubs to check in with our little friend, his tail wagging happily when he'd found him. But he never lunged, never barked and always moved very cautiously and deliberately. And the bird somehow sensed that we intended no harm, that even fox-colored Roo had only his well-being in mind, so he climbed slowly so as not to be heard, up through the thick growth until he could peek his head through the green and watch us while we watched him.

Officer Joe finally arrived at ten. By then the hawk had climbed through the shrubs and was perched on top of them, looking around, the sun painting the rich feathers on his chest and tail a vivid red, keeping us within its sights, occasionally hissing but not moving. Joe pointed out that it was not a hawk but an American Kestrel, which, despite being quite common around here, I have never seen but hear almost every time Roo and I venture out. (Also, I'd like to add, a Kestrel is a hawk, the smallest North American hawk, in fact, and is also commonly referred to as a Sparrow Hawk.)

With Joe looking on and telling me what to do, I scooped the thing up, holding it in my palms on its back. We stroked its head and belly and even though it hissed at us it never snapped or bit. In fact, it was quite calm throughout the entire ordeal. With Duncan plodding along beside us, I placed the bird into the Maple below Brady's patio and watched as it stood steady a moment and then slipped out of the tree, opened its wings and flew fifty or so feet, alighting on the ground near the fence, which he quickly darted under, vanishing into the long grass not far from my favorite Russian Olive tree.

"He's hours away from flying," Joe explained, turning his head and scanning the roofs and trees nearby. "Mom and Dad are probably around here somewhere, so you shouldn't worry too much. They'll look out for him. That's what they do." We shook hands, he left and I knocked on Jeffrey's door to ask if he'd mind keeping his cat in for the rest of the afternoon.

A few hours later we ambled down The Run again and who should Duncan bump into, perched at the very edge of Jeffrey's patio––his feral rescue and her three kittens sitting on the other side of the sliding glass door, their tails thumping––but our Kestrel friend. Duncan barked softly to catch my attention and then sighed loudly, as though annoyed that the little thing had willingly returned to the most dangerous spot in which he could seek shelter. I scooped him up again, placed him at the edge of the fence in the deep grass and watched as he trudged away, indignant and Hobbit-like, into the dense and shadowed green. Mom and Dad were indeed watching. They circled above my head then swept down low to where he settled and called back at me. I hurried to Jeffrey's door to urge him once again to keep the cat indoors but he wasn't home, so I rushed back to my apartment––Duncan tagging along, his tail swishing up wakes in the grass––to write a note, which I taped to Jeffrey's door.

And now that the clouds have come, turning the sky dark and mountainous, and the rain and thunder are rocking the apartment and igniting the evening sky, I can only sit at my desk and look out on the place on the other side of the fence where I saw last saw him huddled in the tall, unkept grass, his parents skittering nearby, their cries piercing the storm. I hope he is safe, that Jeffrey's cat will stay indoors, and that by the time the sun finds Duncan and me on our walk tomorrow morning, he will have found his wings and will be perched atop one of the nearby buildings watching us, the smell of my hands still clinging to his feathers, the tender smile and gentle eyes of Duncan still fresh in his memory.

Playing Dead

When told Duncan can sit with the best of them. He doesn't even need my voice; a closed fist held in front of me is enough to drop him where he stands. He can stay moderately well, unless he sees a pretty girl or Brady (there is no correlation, believe me). He can shake, although he always does so with his right paw. He can give you a high five, and ten, even, if he has change and you ask nicely. Sometimes he'll deign to lay down when asked but only when he knows you've got a treat or when the ground is wet and he knows a soggy belly will require a good rub down when we return home. He's very good at bowing when you bow at him and seems to expect the same of me when he bows at me first thing in the morning. And when asked he's more than happy to tell you he loves you. He's even taken to saying the blessing before meals. He is quite smart and learns very quickly.

The one thing he steadfastly refuses to do is roll over and play dead. I have spent countless hours trying to teach him but he won't budge. He does not like being on his back and playing alive has far more to offer than laying motionless at my feet. And yet I continue to make the attempt. Every so often we spend a few days a week working on it, to disappointing results, before I give up, only to return, optimistic and idiotic, a month or so later.

Last night was one of those nights. After a long game of tug with Bash, his bright blue hammerhead shark, we started all over again. The cats lined up on the back of the couch to watch. Winnie seemed to shake her head in disappointment before turning her back on the whole affair. Olive, too lazy to move, stayed on the couch and blinked her wide eyes at us. Pip tried to get involved, jumped down next to me and immediately threw himself on his side, arched his back and sprawled, reaching his paws and tail out as far as he could and lay motionless. I offered him one of Roo's treats as a reward but that didn't seem satisfactory so he decided to just get (and stay) in the way. Duncan merely sat in front of me and listened to me repeat the command. He'd lay down, but rolling over was not in the cards. Pip did it once or twice more, mewing softly in pride, but still didn't get a treat. After an hour or so I gave up, scritched his ears and settled down on the couch with a book.

This morning on our walk the the air cold around us, the snow refrozen and crunchy and almost brittle underfoot. We'd just passed the triangle of aspens halfway down The Run when a particularly nasty squirrel in a tree started chittering and bellowing at us. Yesterday Duncan had interrupted an important rendezvous among the local rodents and they seemed not to have forgotten it or the way his sudden appearance had forced them to cancel the meeting and scatter in countless different directions. The squirrels here have been known to be somewhat aggressive and when this one came down the tree at Dunc, screeching and grunting at the top of his little lungs, I stepped between them and said very sternly, "Oh why don't you roll over and play dead!" The squirrel jerked his tail at me once or twice, pooped and scampered back up to the nearest branch where he could curse us in safety.

"C'mon, Dunc, let's go," I said and started to march away. I didn't hear him behind me so I turned to look back, expecting him to still be leaning against the side of the tree. Instead he was laying on his side, almost on his back, his two front paws curled up, his eyes fixed on me but not moving.

He got nearly an entire bag of treats for that one.

Playing with Someone Else's Balls*

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Sunrise to Sunset

After nearly two weeks of rain and snow and impossibly Seattle-esque weather, weeks of Duncan moping in the window or pouting at my feet, whining to be taken out to chase the wet little mounds of baby bunnies, this day dawned perfectly, with a sunrise of sherbet oranges and faded blueberry blues.

I awoke shortly before six and everyone––the cats cuddled around me, Duncan at the foot of the bed wrapped in the blanket mom made him for Christmas, and me, especially––was surprised when I didn't roll back over, pull the pillow over my head and sleep for another hour or two. I climbed out of bed, got dressed and had served everyone breakfast before the rest of them joined me. I was standing at the door with the leash waiting for Roo to amble down the hall long before he figured out that I was serious about walking. He was slow and stretchy, pausing for some morning Downward Dog yoga twice before he was ready, and waited patiently for me to attach his leash, a rarity as he usually chirps and dances impatiently around me.

The morning was bright and rather than meander around our complex, as we usually do, we took our time crossing the street to venture into the park, which was entirely ours at that hour. None of the joggers or soccer hoards were out so I took him off leash and let him amble beside me. He was still sleepy and didn't dart ahead but stayed at my side despite my encouragement to run far and wide while he could. The park was lovely in its silence, welcoming and barely awake. The week's rain and snow and terrible winds had shaken the blossoms from the trees and the tiny white petals were scattered across the ground like a dusting of snow. Duncan finally woke up and galloped through them, rolling in them and collecting them in his fur. Then he'd jump up again, shake them free and run away again, pausing every now and then to wait for me, sighing as I took my time, kicking the dew from the blades of grass as I passed.

Only three hours later, after I'd finished the laundry and done the grocery shopping we went out again, walking the length of the property, stopping to let the strolling families, fresh from their breakfasts, pet him, the small children smiling wide as they patted his back, repeating, "Gog" while their parents said, "Yes, nice dog." Duncan didn't mind but stood patiently, his tongue, big and pink and fat on the end, lolling out of his mouth.

At three, after a brief visit from Ken, we ventured back to the park to throw the ball. The families had gathered again, this time for barbecues and Frisbee tosses. I settled down in the grass and watched an ant crawl up the length of my leg, tumbling from hair to hair, before finally reaching my shorts and then the vast white expanse of my t-shirt. Duncan rolled back and forth, kicking his legs up as though sprinting across the sky, where a white crab cloud morphed into a dancing rotisserie chicken, the claws changing slowly into funny little naked wings.

An hour later we ventured down to the pool to sit with Monica and Jimmy and Brady, who'd been there for hours, sunning themselves and taking dips in the surprisingly warm water. I'd made myself a drink, a vodka with blueberry pomegranate juice, and lounged on the deck chairs while Duncan and Roxie, Brady's dog, chased a tennis ball. Monica tossed the ball in the pool, which was too much for Roxie, who talks a tough talk but can't manage to walk it, but Duncan, with only a little coaxing, soon found himself paddling back and forth after it. He had trouble navigating the stairs but once he managed to figure them out he was fine. His first swim of the season. Soon we'll be spending our weekends at Chatfield splashing in the river.

After a short nap we ventured out at the moment when the sun had finally slipped below the horizon. The sky had softened and changed from faded blueberry to washed denim, and the moon, with bright Venus sitting just below her at four o'clock, was brilliant before us. The day had cooled and the heavy smells of evening were wafting all around us: cut grass, burgers and chicken on the grill, fabric softener blowing from the drier vents. Roo, finally dry, if not a bit fluffier than usual, trotted beside me, sniffing the edges of the low shrubs and peering deep within them for a sight of the bunnies, which only a few weeks ago were smaller than and nearly as trusting as kittens.

We will both sleep well tonight, me especially because I know this was a day for Duncan, who has been patiently waiting for the clouds to pass and the sun to shine bright in his face.

Suddenly

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

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

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


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

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

Slide

Most of our snow has melted except for that which sits on the north side of the buildings, or even in tiny little mounds against the trunks of the trees or at the base of the fence posts. And what's left has ceased to be snow but has turned to tight packs of unrelenting gravel coated and leaf-encrusted balls of blue ice.

Several weeks ago during the last big snow I donned my boots and carved a trail that wound from my apartment through The Run on the north side of the buildings down to The Glen where Duncan likes to run wild. The trail was quite popular among the dog folk here, but now, after several weeks of being trod upon, it is no longer and easy-going thoroughfare and is little more than an unforgiving ice sluice, each turn a dead-man's curve. Duncan and I walk it every morning and again every afternoon. It's where he chases the squirrels and sometimes if the time is right, we find Brady out on his patio enjoying the sunset over the golf course. But it's becoming clear that perhaps we need to find a new place to walk until the ice breaks and we can get ourselves on solid ground again.

This morning, after tossing and turning all night, I took Roo outside for his first walk of the day. Even though it was incredibly warm and the sun was high and big in the sky, the path was as treacherous as ever. Duncan spotted a squirrel and darted after it. I lagged behind, taking my time to be sure of my footing, but kept my eye on him as bounded ahead. He's normally quite graceful, sometimes elegant even in the way he moves, but this morning something happened that caught us both by surprise: he slipped on the ice, went down on his belly and slid halfway down the hill, spinning a lazy half circle as he went. He didn't fight it but merely watched the world pass around him. When he slid off the ice and into the grass he sat still for a moment, dazed. I hurried to his side to check on him, afraid he'd hurt himself. As soon as I rushed to him, though, he jumped up, darted back the way we'd come, spun sharply, charged at me and threw himself onto his belly to slide again. Despite my fever and chills all I could do was sit on my heels and watch Dunc run back and forth and careen into me, a wide grin spread across his face. Over and over he did it, his enthusiasm growing each time.

If I'd felt better I would've joined him. But seeing as how slowly that ice is breaking I think I'll have ample opportunity once I feel better.

Within

Today was the first time I've spent Thanksgiving alone since 1994, my senior year in college. In those days all my friends went home to be with their families, but because mine was so far away, and because I was an RA in the dorms where I lived, I always stayed behind, taking my dinner at the Denny's in Highland Park on Route 41, a thick notebook and a nice pen in tow. It was not the most ideal way to spend my favorite holiday, but I'd sit at my table eating my turkey and stuffing while I wrote letters to friends. After I graduated my roommates and I hosted an orphan Thanksgiving dinner, and the year after was spent with Ken and April, and every one of those Thanksgivings was magical, from making the world's best mashed potatoes to giving Winnie and Pip a bath after they somehow became infested with fleas. I would not lose a single one of those memories for all the money in the world.

This has been a challenging year. Ken and I separated after thirteen years together and I had to relearn much of my life. It hasn't always been easy and quite often I've struggled more than these writings admit, but I spent a great deal of my time today reflecting on past Thanksgiving dinners with Ken and my friends and comparing them to where I am now. It would've been easy to feel as though a terrible accident had happened, that by being alone I had somehow suffered some sort of failure. But that's not quite the way I see it.

I believe that happiness comes from within ourselves, that while material things may offer a temporary pleasure, and the company of family and friends certainly enriches us, it is we who determine how to feel. I was invited to spend my day with several people I know but in the end I chose to stay at home with Duncan and the kittens, to make my own dinner, to reflect on the past, both distant and recent. And while people tended to pity me for being alone I can not stress enough that I was not lonely. A year ago I never would've imagined I'd be where I am now, but I had plenty to celebrate and honor within myself. For that I am proud. It was a far better Thanksgiving than those ones spent in Denny's.

I would like to take a moment to thank Amber and Jesse and Kenzie for stopping by, bringing me a decaf latte and a beautiful picture Kenz colored, which now hangs on my fridge. I'd like to thank Andy for knocking on my door and giving me a hug. I'd like to thank my mother, Ruth and Kevi for calling, and Brady, Allison and Larisa for inviting me to join in their own celebrations. My day was made all the more perfect knowing that people love and think of me as much and as often as I love and think of them. Bless you all.

Now that the day is behind me, now that I am sitting in my bed, Duncan snoring at my feet, Olive batting her big yellow eyes at me from the pillow at my side, Winnie and Pip waiting patiently for me to lay down so they can claim their spots on my shoulder and hip, I think I'll just enjoy the silence and reflect, as I do every year, on what A.A. Milne meant when he wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

Here There Be Monsters

It's been over a month since I've walked with Duncan through the winding nameless stretch of grass directly in front of our apartment. That's where Gil roams and I haven't wanted to expose Dunc to that lunatic, red-eyed German Wirehaired Pointer since their last encounter. But the other night, after leaving Brady's, we cut through the yard, which seemed quiet and empty when we first stepped foot into it. And then all hell broke loose.

Gil appeared from nowhere. Pete, his companion, wasn't paying attention while he talked with Sarah and her yellow lab, Ross. Gil charged around the building, stopped short when he saw us and stiffened up. I saw the hackles raise on his shoulders and a moment before he jumped forward he seemed to smile. And then he was running across the yard at us, his head low, the force of his body in his shoulders, his mouth open and ears back. I could only watch while I pulled Duncan behind me and used myself to block Gil. I called out to Pete, bent my knees and braced for the attack. It felt like that scene in "Jaws" when Roy Scheider is the sole survivor from the ship and he's perched on its sinking mast with a rifle watching as the shark approaches for the kill.

I said very loudly, for Pete more than Gil, "I swear to God, if you touch my dog I will kick you in the head."

And then Gil was on us. He swerved around me, grabbed Duncan's flank in his teeth and yanked, growling as he pulled and ripped. Duncan hopped back but Gil followed, lunging for his ears, missing and getting his cheek. They circled around me, Duncan on his leash, Gil free and wild. Ruth had told me only the day before that you should grab a dog's hind legs to pull him from a fight, but I couldn't reach for Gil and didn't want to let go of Duncan's leash. They kept pulling me in circles, Duncan defending himself, Gil attacking, and I wondered where Pete was, why he wasn't doing something. It didn't matter because when Gil lunged at Duncan's throat I swung my foot back and kicked his head as hard as I could.

He sat back a moment, dazed, picked himself up and lunged again. I finally saw Pete, who was frantically trying to grab his collarless dog. Gil was moving so quickly, however, snarling so ferociously, that Pete couldn't get a grip on him. His fingers couldn't catch on that wiry coat and kept slipping off.

So I kicked him again, yelling Gil's name, demanding he sit. He snapped at my shoe, leapt at us again and wound up with my foot in his rib cage. Hard.

That got him. Gil fell over, which gave Pete time to throw himself on top of him and pull him away. Sarah was standing helplessly nearby holding Ross. I handed her Duncan's leash and stepped up to Pete, who held Gil but kept his head down.

"Put a goddamn leash on your goddamn dog!" I yelled. Pete didn't say anything, wouldn't even look up. "This is the fourth time your dog has attacked us. I'm sick of it! If I see him without a leash again I'll report you to the leasing office and the police."

Pete nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sarah released Ross, who hurriedly sniffed Duncan to make sure he was okay. Sarah smiled a sad smile as I thanked her, took Duncan's leash and walked him home to inspect him. He was frothy with Gil spit but there wasn't any blood. I dried him off, we cuddled on the floor and all was well.

The next morning I actually felt bad for kicking Gil. I'm a dog lover and I kept replaying the scene in my head looking for some other way it could have been handled. Brady and Ruth both assured me I'd done the right thing, that the fault was with Pete for not leashing his dog. I agreed, but I kept wondering how I'd feel if I watched a stranger kick Duncan in the head and ribs. I finally decided that the next time I saw Pete I was going to talk with him, apologize for kicking Gil and work to reach a peaceful agreement.

And then came last night. We'd strolled down the Run, played in The Glen and were on our way home, skirting the edge of the winding yard where Gil roams, the once nameless grounds where Duncan and I used to watch bunnies in the morning, where he plays with Sophie, where we stood down a coyote. After two years of not knowing what to call it, I now call it The Lair.

Again, Gil appeared with Pete right behind him. I stopped and watched to see if Gil was finally wearing a collar or leash, neither of which he was. I stood dumbfounded as he trotted back and forth, head high, chasing a ball Pete was throwing. Then he stopped, turned and stared at us. I took a step back but Pete whistled and Gil sat down.

"Is he on a leash?" I asked.

Pete held up a leash, coiled around his hand but not attached to Gil. He dropped a bag of Gil shit in the garbage can, turned away and snarled at me over his shoulder, "Get fucked."

Apparently Pete doesn't play nice either and I no longer feel like apologizing.

Sudden Stripe

It has rained nearly every day for as long as I can remember. It seems once the last of the late-Spring snows melted our small corner of the world was drenched in rains, the drops sometimes light and barely noticeable except for the dusty marks they leave on the hoods and windows of our cars, sometimes torrential, nearly submerging our streets and painting our world in Jackson Pollock drips and smears. Lately Denver has seen tornadoes, right in the city, dropping out of the skies with grace and shocking speed, causing little damage and fading away as quickly as they appeared. And then sometimes the rains are merely loud.

Yesterday morning, as he was sitting on the bed in his room, Brady had a front row seat to the suddenness of Denver's spring weather. A bolt of lightning struck one of the three large cottonwoods just outside his window. It's a tree Duncan and I walk beneath every day, sometimes several times, always pausing long enough to admire the thick veins of bark and the highways of ants which travel up and down it. The lightning wrapped around the trunk in two jagged stripes, one on each side, both winding their way from up high among the gray-green leaves, peeling back the thick bark like a pulled hangnail, as it traveled down to the damp earth, leaving a wide cratered fingerprint between two fat roots. It must have been quite the sight, the dark mid-morning illuminated, the tree a sudden enormous sparkler. Brady heard the crack, deafening in his room, but before he had time to turn the window exploded around him, the glass shattering into tens of thousands of pieces, a deadly flashing kaleidoscope. Chunks of bark hurtled through the window and ricocheted around the room as he threw himself to the floor to safety. He spent much of the rest of the day cleaning the room and having his brother pull chunks of glass and slivers of wood from his back and scalp, marveling that he was alive at all.


It is a tree I have always loved, bigger around at its base than I am tall, taller than the three-story buildings we live in. It is the last tree to lose its leaves in Autumn, offering shade and soothing windy whispers when everything else has undressed and stands stark in the slanted light. It is the last tree in Spring to pull its clothes back on, teasing me for weeks as Duncan and I pass beneath it in the morning and again in the afternoons and evenings., Brady hates the thing, and I suppose I would too if I'd watched it sway under the force of a summer storm, hearing the great boughs creak and moan under their own weight. But our experience has been different and so I love it and hope it does not die, that it will stand exactly as it is long after we have rested in its shade one last time.

Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.

Little Dignity

I'd gone to the gym with Brady this afternoon and by the time I got home my legs were starting to stiffen up and whatever poor excuse for muscles I have in my shoulders and arms were throwing a loud and obnoxious tantrum. Duncan, of course, was in exactly the opposite condition, jumping and full of celebration, demanding we walk and walk and walk some more. I agreed to take him for a quick one around the complex with just another time to pee and poop and check the fire hydrant messages which had been left for him. He didn't quite agree and decided to drag the walk out as long as possible, sniffing every rattling leaf, scouring entire patches of sidewalk for the faintest of odors, moving on and then doubling back to make sure he hadn't missed anything, forcing me to stand in the cold, bouncing on my aching legs to keep warm. It was my punishment for being gone this afternoon, which obviously should have been spent with him, playing with his Birdy, being spoon fed stuffing dipped in gravy and cuddling on the couch. His slow pace wasn't a problem until we came around the Bowles side of the building and stopped near the low hedge directly behind the bus stop. The sun had gone down and darkness had settled in, along with a sudden and surprising chill, and while Duncan nosed around the shrub I shivered and told him, "You need to poop. You need to poop now." He didn't even look up. "If I were you I'd poop. Poop now. Poop now!"

The man sitting on the bench a few feet away turned in my direction, Duncan completely concealed from his line of sight. "By all means poop!" he told me. "But at least wait until I get my ass on the 5:35 and away from you!"

At times Duncan loves to remind me that my dignity means very little to him.

Thank You

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Unlike it's more ostentatious cousins it asks very little of us, only that we gather together and honor the bounties of our lives. We're not required to wrap our houses in increasingly obnoxious light displays. We don't have send boxes of pilgrim hat-shaped chocolates to our loved ones. Nothing explodes in the skies. We need merely pause and be grateful for whatever gifts, however large or small, have been bestowed on us.

I try to give thanks every day, letting the people I love know how much they mean to me, sharing whatever goodwill I have with the people who enter my life, turning my face into the sun and thanking it for its warmth. But this year, on this day I am especially thankful for

• the voice of the American people for rejecting incompetence and finally selecting a leader who will help this nation fully realize its potential and promise (all while speaking full, clear, grammatically correct sentences).
• Ken, for working as hard as he does, making the tremendous sacrifices he has and being the person I most want to share my life with.
• Kevi's courage and perseverance throughout this difficult and lesson-filled year. She does not know how much her strength and patience have inspired me.
• the many new friends I've made because of the places Duncan has led me and the experiences we've shared.
• butterflies and honey bees, which were scarce in my part of the world this year, but whose rare and sudden appearances reminded me that there is tremendous power contained in the smallest and least likely of places.
• Homemade honey maple yo-Curt with almond Kashi for breakfast.
• The lake at Chatfield where Duncan learned to love the water.
• the Magic Feathers and all the people who sent them to me, which I collected last year (and will soon ask for again), which reminded me of the courage I already possess but occasionally forget.
• David, for calling me "kiddo" and being such a generous and sincere mentor.
• Mom and Casey for coming to Denver in my hour of need, keeping me busy and making me laugh and look at the world through new eyes.
• the scent of the Russian Olives and the Linden trees, the memory of which is forgiveness for winter's bite.
• the poetry of Mary Oliver.
• the precious memories of Thanksgivings past, spent with April and Ken in Round Lake, making vast quantities of good food, playing Risk, holding hands and saying the blessing.
• the rabbits, which keep Duncan occupied on our walks and allow him to be the dog he truly is.
• Tom Spanbauer for writing Now is The Hour and the line, "The only thing that keeps us from floating off with the wind is our stories."
• The song, "For What It's Worth" by Buffaloe Springfield, which had particular meaning for me this Fall.
• The music of Duncan's voice when asked, "Who do you love" and he replies, "I love you."
• Chelsea for being the responsible, socially and environmentally-aware business owner she is, and for Hero's Pets, the best damn store west of the Mississippi.
• Brady, for his excitement and enthusiasm in learning that participation is another form of patriotism, as well as teaching me to play Guitar Hero.
• My dad and Jane for a memorable day together last August, the first such day in over eight years.
• Rabio Lab on NPR.
• Oberon, my grand oak tree at Lake Forest College, standing watch over the edge of the quad, and the long winding staircase Jen and I climbed countless times to the top of Carnagie Hall there, to sit and talk, or not, and watch the stars climb over Lake Michigan.
• Winnie's soft weight on my hip in the morning, Pip suffering species identification problems and thinking he's a dog, Olive's enormous owl eyes batting at me from her roost on Ken's pillow in the morning.
• and, as always, A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

One Leaf

Duncan and I spent a long moment this morning watching a single leaf, a brown and brittle hunchbacked thing as big as my palm with the fingers curled inward liked the hooked legs of a spider or a crab, crawl across the sidewalk. It moved slowly, taking tentative steps until the wind caught it and hurried it along at an awkward gallop. The Cottonwoods have been slow to change, as they were slow to bud last Spring, and just a week ago I remarked to Brady that it was almost as though they were the last of Summer's celebrants, still so green with full, tree-bound leaves swaying in the wind, a gentle chorus, so unlike clamor that accompanies the slightest shiver from all those who have fallen and scuttle and crunch underfoot each time they stir. Now, though, they are nearly bare, enormous clenched hands, rising dark against the blueness of the sky.

I have spent our afternoon walks trudging through the leaves, dragging my feet through them, making the most of their voices, taking what little joy there is to be had in their bodies, driving them before me like waves and dolphins before a ship. But watching that one leaf crab-walking across the sidewalk reminded me that there is life in even those things for which we have little use and are busy forgetting. It's walk and rush were feral and alien, but I stood transfixed and remembered that quote from American Beauty, the one I have used so often here: "[It] was, like, dancing with me. Like a little kid begging me to play with it. For fifteen minutes. And that's the day I knew there was this entire life behind things, and... this incredibly benevolent force, that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid, ever."

Sometimes it's difficult to find the joy in this season, but if we remember that life does not end, that death and Autumn are an illusion, we can find great comfort in its beauty. Duncan knows this. He finds joy in every patch of grass, every twig and cast-off branch, every gust of wind, carrying the scents and flavors of the world to him. It's in watching his joy and delight in this suddenly barren world that I rediscover my own.

Walk On

It feels as though we've been walking and walking and walking some more, from afternoons when the sun was hot and it was easy to raise a sweat just by breathing, to these cold days when the wind has lifted the leaves from the trees and scattered them in a raucous chorus across the yellowed grass. But, as I've always claimed, the destination would be nothing without the journey.

Over these past few months I have made friends and shared experiences I'm unsure would've been possible without the journey of this election and the reward of its historic outcome. My faith in mankind has been elevated and I will never forget those jubilant moments just after Barack Obama's name was announced as our 44th president. I will take that memory with me on many journeys and I'm sure each of you will do the same. It is important, crucial even, that we never forget how we felt at that moment, like the door had swung open, light had been let in and all the promises of our country were made real.

If there's one thing I've learned from walking with Duncan it's that no matter how satisfying a walk can be, how utterly fulfilling and joyous it is, there is another waiting just beyond it, full of the same unknowing and challenges as each of its predecessors. Duncan demands we keep walking and despite weary legs or a tired spirit, blistering heat or painful cold, I take him out and we walk again, not always with the same result, but rarely without reward. Duncan knows with his special wisdom that there can be no destination without a journey, and we must apply that same knowledge to our new government. As Obama said in his acceptance speech on Tuesday night, this election was never about him, it was about us. He did not elect himself and he will accomplish nothing without our assistance. So, in these days of celebration and excitement, I call on each of you to search your soul and find one issue that is of special significance to you––be it health care or equal pay, the environment, education or gay rights––and never stop walking until you reach a destination that brings you comfort and peace of mind. Write your senators and congressmen, join a group, educate yourself, speak and speak until your voice is hoarse and then speak some more, and do everything in your power to make your vision a reality. Do not stop until you've reached the world you've always wanted to live in. Walk on.

"If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking,
eventually you'll make progress." (Barack Obama)

The Third of July

The park has been a subdued place since last night's 3rd of July firework extravaganza when literally thousands of people laid claim to patches of grass and field, when vendors selling turkey legs and buttery ears of corn set up shop and the city of Littleton ignited what surely had to be one of the least spectacular firework displays I've ever been witness to (and I hail from southeast Idaho where for twenty years the highlight of the festivities was the fire that inevitably started on Red Hill above the university. I'm used to being underwhelmed!). People began gathering as early as noon for a show which lasted (literally!) fifteen minutes. The traffic on Bowles and Pierce was quite fierce afterward, which made my five minute walk back across the street all the more glorious. The best part of the evening was spending it with Melissa and Kona and our new friend Brady, who has a dog––a seventeen pound Chiuahuah named Diego––but prefers to let him stay with his mother. Duncan and Kona were quite well-behaved throughout the show, although neither would watch, sitting, instead, between us with their backs to the lights and colors exploding over the lake. It was a wonderful evening and the true show came shortly before midnight when the thunder, lightening and rain started. No one, least of all unincorporated Jefferson County, can match Mother Nature for a real show!

Even though there are plenty of families gathered to celebrate the 4th this evening, the park was rather quiet. The ice cream truck circled only once then departed and the thugs at the skate park had their music turned down and seemed to be working to keep their language in check. Not only that but practically none of them offered one of the myriad eight-year olds a cigarette or a beer, so things definitely seem to be on the up and up.

As we turned back toward home, cutting across the large triple soccer field, I noticed a family had gathered in the middle of the grass spreading out checkered blankets and a ring of folding lawn chairs. They'd lugged two large coolers all the way from the parking lot and had propped them open, ice and soda and buns and snacks practically spilling over the edges. The parents were working the hot dogs on the grill while the kids played badminton not too far away.

"Go ask him," the woman nudged her husband with her elbow as she prodded the roasting wienies with a fork. He looked over at me uncomfortably and shuffled forward, one of those guys who obviously doesn't like to ask for directions, not even when he's hopelessly lost.

"How you doing?" he asked. "Good lookin' dog," he said and patted Duncan on the head.

"What's up?"

"Yeah, listen..." he started, his feet shuffling awkwardly in the grass. "We're just wondering..."

"Go on!" his wife ordered as the kids ambled over to stand next to their father while they admired Dunc, who had his eye on the table laid out with food.

"Well, we're wondering, do you know where everyone is? What time does the show start tonight? The park seems to be awfully empty!"

It broke my heart, I tell you. It really did.