Hammerhead

With many of Duncan's pals still locked safely away in ICU and showing no signs of immediate recovery (read: I haven't exactly made stitching them up a high priority), I figured it was time to see if we couldn't make him some new friends so I took him over to Hero's so he could pick out someone new to bring home. After trying out a couple of plush lions, one or two plastic squeaky things and licking the basket of bully sticks every time he walked by, Dunc finally settled on something unusual and unexpected, a bright blue hammerhead shark with orange and white flowers sprinkled along his back and a rather deep and raspy squeak when squeezed. He's made of sturdy fiber and floats in water so he makes a nice toy to bring into the tub.

It took awhile to settle on a name for his new pal, especially since we tend to stick primarily to the B's (Buddy, Baby, Bah-Bah, Blue Buddha, Beaker and Berry) but Duncan eventually picked out the perfect name himself. After a day or two of carrying the shark around the apartment by the tail and shaking him furiously back and forth, knocking over anything and everything not tied down, we settled on Bash.

I'm just happy he's soft otherwise my shins would be bruised and Pip––who has also showed an interest in Bash––would be in the ICU with Roo's other friends.

Crime and Punishment Revisited

It was another grisly morning here. It seems that some time during the night Duncan tried, convicted and punished another of his friends. While Percy the Penguin is still recovering from last month's horrific disemboweling, Duncan has struck again, this time casting judgment on the closest of pals, his treasured and beloved Bah-Bah.

I'm not exactly sure what the crime was, or if one was even committed, or if perhaps this isn't a message meant for me, but Bah-Bah has literally fallen out of favor.

What I do know is this: some time between midnight and 6 AM, Bah-Bah, who was last seen resting beside Duncan on his pillow, fell three stories to the hard concrete below.

I didn't realize Duncan's most trusted friend was even missing. It wasn't until we walked this morning that I discovered the mangled body laying in a heap below our balcony.

Bah-Bah, legless, deaf and helpless, had been dropped thirty feet to a spot just outside our neighbor's garage. Duncan strolled casually by, acting as though he was oblivious to the mangled corpse of his friend, who has been with him nightly for the past two years. Duncan, who remembers every place he's ever seen a squirrel. Duncan, who can locate a golf ball under a foot of snow. Duncan, who hunts out lilacs and sunflowers from miles away and can spot a bunny in the thickest of shrubs or concealed deep in the tallest grass.

Bah-Bah, the truest and most loyal of buddies, was found on his side, his eyes open, the stitched-on smile still on his face. I gasped and rushed to his side. Thankfully––despite the tremendous wound in his side––he was still alive. I scooped him up and turned to Roo, who had taken a sudden very intense interest in a gum wrapper. We climbed the stairs and delivered Bah-Bah to the ICU with Percy before returning outside for our walk. Dunc kept a low profile, ambling quietly beside me, head down, as though nothing had happened.

The events of last night have rocked our apartment. Despite my assurances Buddy and Beaker, Baby and the Blue Buddha are terrified that they're next on the hit list.

I think it's time to pull in some outside help.

Morning Mischief Managed

Perhaps because I never saw my basket of yarn as anything other than benevolent until it turned on me and almost destroyed my dog, I now look at every object I own with a suspicious eye. What if the couch––solid and immovable––were to suddenly tip under the soft weight of Winnie and fall back and crush the children in one, quick blow? What if I left the stove on and cooked every animal and beloved object not only in my apartment but the entire building? Or what if I didn't make the bed and the cats crawled under the covers and, trapped by a maze of twisted blankets and a wall of pillows, suffocated, their plaintive cries unheard by the only person who could save them? It's absurd (and more than a bit of an exaggeration, I might add!) but after the skein of red yarn I bought for a scarf intended for my sister ended up in Duncan's intestines, let's just say I'm cautious.

That's why every morning, after making my tea and preparing my five fruit breakfast, I take all of Duncan's toys––Percy, his penguin, the Bah-Bah, the Birdy, Buddy and the Baby, and perch them atop my DVD shelf where he can't get to them, rip them open and choke on their fluffy innards. He doesn't like it one bit and upon my arrival home in the evening,  insists emphatically that they all immediately be returned to the ground where he can play with and terrorize them. I leave only the tennis balls for him to play with, while I'm gone and perhaps, if he's very sly, a stray kiwi.

This morning after tending to my rituals I went in search of the toys and discovered that Duncan had taken action while I showered, spending that valuable time hiding his little, armless and legless, and sometimes faceless friends, all over the apartment. Percy was tucked away on his pillow, nestled down between the blanket Chelsea gave him for Christmas and the throw mom knitted for him. If it hadn't been for Percy's bright yellow beak I may not have noticed him at all. The blue bone was concealed in Winnie's fort, an old shoe box I keep under an end table where she hides for hours, peeking up slowly and carefully so that just the green of her big eyes are visible. Buddy was stashed between the bed and the window, down among the blankets where it would've been all too easy to miss him. After a careful search of the entire apartment I'd rounded everyone up except Bah-Bah, who remained unaccounted for. Duncan ate his breakfast, indifferent to my search, or so it seemed, until I returned to the bedroom to find him curled up on the bed, the mangled lamb tucked under one paw while he received a very attentive and thorough bath.

He was not happy when I took him away and placed him up on the tower with the rest of them. He sighed loudly, harumphed and wouldn't look at me when I left. I'll make it up to him and stop by Hero's for a bully stick before I come home.

It's the time away from home that alarms me. He and the cats have all day to plot and plan and I'm beginning to doubt I'm smart enough to keep up with them.

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)

Bah-Bah

Duncan fell in love with his Berry the moment he first laid eyes on him and they've been inseparable ever since. I try to rotate his toys––The Baby (a squirrel, now missing most of its face and two paws), The Buddy (an opossum which scared the hell out of him when they first met, but once its rather creepy tail was dispatched he warmed right up to it), The Blue Bone (a bright blue plastic toy shaped like a bone) and his Berry (the teddy bear he met while on a brief field trip to the college bookstore where I work)––but he just won't let go of the Berry. He carries it with him all over the house, grooming it, gnawing on the stub that was once its tail, keeping it nice and moist at all times. He curls up with it on the couch, tosses it around when I'm too busy blogging to play, and takes particular joy in slapping it down on my head when I'm in bed, leaving wet little smears across my cheek. He's quite fond of it.

Recently we welcomed a new member of The Duncan Clan, a soft, white sheep with floppy ears and narrow little nostrils we're calling his Bah-Bah. It's a cute thing, and although he's been reluctant to give up any time with Berry, Bah-Bah has slowly been making her way into his heart. He's been very careful not to favor her and has offered Berry equal licking and grooming time, but tonight I caught him cuddling with her on the couch. Berry was nowhere to be found.

Rewind (Part 2): Two Pictures

I thought the worst of it was behind us, that all the yarn had come up–albeit it slightly bleached and in long, gloopy strands–but I thought Duncan was in the clear. Hours later, however, it was obvious he was not. He still enjoyed laying outside at the end of our walk, his eyes pointed toward the geese which had herded up across the street at the tennis courts, but he stopped eating and drinking, a sure sign that all was not well. Ever vigilant he was never out of my sight and when it was obvious he was an unhappy puppy, I did the first thing any responsible person would do: I went into denial. Whenever he began to look wilted and lethargic I simply popped on his leash and took him for a walk, which always revived him. On those walks that cold Friday night he was his old self, which seemed to say, "Nothing wrong here, Chief. Full steam ahead!" It was when we returned home and he collapsed onto the floor in an exhausted heap, uninterested in any of his toys, or even treats, that it became apparent he did not feel well, that we were not only not out of the woods but perhaps only just heading into them.

By ten o'clock I was in a panic. He hadn't eaten a thing, had begun retching up the water I practically forced him to drink. He hardly moved, just laid there, barely lifting his head even when I spoke his name. I called Ken, who was training in Thornton, and asked him to come home and take a look at Dunc. Ken is a certified vet tech–which was the reason we originally moved to Denver–and I assumed he'd know what we should do.

"He's not eating, at all," I told him. "And everything he drinks comes right back up. He won't play with his Baby or his Buddy and the only time he shows any sign of life is while we're walking. I'm worried." On his advice I scrambled some eggs, prepared some rice and had them ready to go right when Ken walked in the door.

And that's when the little poop pulled a fast one on me. The second the door opened Duncan sprang to life, jumped up on Ken, kissed him and licked his hands, ran and got his toys, turned in joyful circles. I stood there dumbfounded; the dog playing with Ken was not the dog I had been sitting with all night. His ears perked up, his tongue lolled out, his back end shook almost violently with the wagging of his tail. Ken arched his eyebrows and looked at me in that way of his that says, "Clearly you've been exaggerating again." I stuttered and explained that Duncan was faking it, that the minute Ken put the eggs and rice down my point would be made: Duncan would sniff it, maybe even take a polite lick, but he wouldn't eat. As Ken set the bowl down, Duncan practically leapt at the food, inhaling it in one, maybe two big bites. Almost immediately he turned to his water dish and downed everything, his tail wagging the entire time. I shook my head and stammered about how bad it had been, how this strange animal in front of me was the not the dog he'd been only moments before Ken had opened the door.

"Just keep your eye on him," Ken told me, gathering his things. "As long as he's eating and drinking he should be fine. The yarn probably just upset his belly." He scratched Duncan behind the ear, grabbed his stuff and left. He was home for all of ten minutes, and no sooner had he left the property than Duncan stood up, faced me and yacked all over the carpet. All that water, all those eggs, each and every grain of rice, spread out in a nice yellow puddle at my feet. I opened the door, led him outside and rubbed his back while he heaved for the next ten minutes, knee deep in the snow.

It continued for the rest of the night. Saturday morning dawned for me at roughly 3 AM. Following are the text messages I sent Ken:

2:59 AM: The eggs are back. He's puked 7 times all over the apartment.

4:59 AM: And we're up puking again. He's a sad puppy!

5:06 AM: Now he's drinking lots if only to have something in his belly to puke. He looks terrible.

5:09 AM: Call me when you're up, 'kay?

7:34 AM: We're up again, but he drank some more.

7:55 AM: And we're puking again.

9:38 AM: Outside puking. He's so tired. And you'd definitely notice he's sick if you were home now!

On and on it went. It seemed he'd eaten an infinite number of eggs and an unending supply of rice. They just kept emerging. By that afternoon I was scared so I called Ken and told him I had to do something, that he needed to see a doctor immediately. Our vet had just closed and the only place available was Alameda East, which was less than five minutes away. Ken consented and we were out the door.

I don't know what I expected, maybe that they'd give him something that would make him puke any remaining yarn, that he was dehydrated and they'd put him on fluids, that there would be a pill that would make him better. I certainly didn't expect what they told us: that the yarn was still in his stomach, possibly his intestines, that there was a blockage and that if it didn't pass soon we ran the risk of his intestinal walls tearing and resulting his body going septic, which would cause his death. I was floored, couldn't speak, didn't know what to say or do. They left me alone to think and talk with Ken, decide what we needed to do, what we could afford.

I think that was the most shocking thing, that his entire life hung on our already precarious finances. How could something like this happen and the deciding factor come down to money? He was only two years old! It wasn't his fault I'd been careless and left the yarn out. And now his fate would be decided by whether or not we could pay to save him. This was the dog who had saved me during my anxiety attacks, the one who'd comforted me when no one else had been able to and this was how it would end?

The x-rays came back inconclusive (yarn absorbs the dye they use so catching a clear image is almost impossible). They kept telling me we needed to do surgery immediately or he'd die. Immediately! Now! You don't have time to think about it! But they wouldn't do it without payment up front and we didn't have the $5000 they had quoted us. My mind swam. They did want to keep him overnight for observation and to get his fluids up, which meant I had to leave him.

I asked for a moment alone with him. We curled up on the floor in the office. He rested his sad, little head in my lap.

"These are my favorite parts of The Duncan," I told him. "The ears," I said, squeezing them softly, running my fingers though the long hair that grows there. "The cheeks," I said, pulling on his jowls which hang slightly lower than his mouth. "And the paws," I said, rubbing his feet, rolling my fingers between his pads and the blond hair between them. "These are my favorite parts of The Duncan and I won't do without them." He sighed and his eyebrows did that thing they do which tells me he understands. "Papa is going to leave you here but he'll be back. I promise. Your job is to get better."

As they took him away I took two picture:

one of my limp little dog

and one of me

because I never want to forget how afraid I was for him.

Night Snow

We awoke to snow, and although Duncan didn't get a long walk this morning (more like a quick pee, a well-thought out poop, and a quick jog once around the building before I left for work), he saved it up for tonight's long romp in the park.

I can't think of many things that make my dog happier than snow. Shortly after Ken brought him home it snowed and he spent his first days with us plowing through drifts bigger than himself, chasing after powder that rolled ahead of him as he careened forward. Duncan loves the outdoors, loves wind in his face, loves playing fetch or tug of war, but little compares to his joy at playing in the snow. While I spend all year dreading it and then enduring it, he revels in it, delights in snapping at it and rolling through it.

Tonight at the park he was finally able to release all of his pent up energy. The plans he must've made this afternoon as he gazed out the window while it fell, then stuck to the ground. Looking across Bowles he must've seen the park, white and pristine with fields of unmarred snow waiting for him, calling to him.

Once again we were the only ones out so I took him off-leash to run free. Considering it had been seventy-three degrees on Monday, today's temperatures seemed almost unendurable. I've never been a fan of the cold or snow, I do not ski or snowshoe or participate in any of those other winter sports. I spend the long, cold months in sweaters and heavy socks, sitting on the couch reading, occasionally knitting, watching movies. We could not be more different, homebody me, who hates sports and Winter, and my ball-crazy, snow-mad dog.

Because it was so cold I worried all day about our walk and how displeased Duncan would be with me when our nightly trek was cut short. Maybe Duncan knew this and came up with a plan to distract me. I'll never know, but somehow whatever he did worked and we spent more than an hour playing and chasing and rolling around in the stuff. I even managed a snow angel, my first since college when a group of us got drunk and did them naked on the field behind a church. When Duncan tried an angel his came out more like an albino ink-blot test, but I'm not judging. His approach to keeping me out was direct but not aggressive. Rather than allow me to focus on how miserable my feet felt or how my nose wouldn't stop running, he distracted me by doing little more than standing in front of me, blocking my path and demanding I play his favorite winter game, Kick Snow in Duncan's Face. It's very simple: he positions himself down low in front of me while I turn my foot sideways, scrape the snow up in one swift moving arc and kick it in the direction of his head so he can leap forward, snap at it and watch as it rains down, catching in his muzzle and ears, coating his nose and eyebrows. We did this for over an hour, leaving a strange, sideswiping trail as we moved across the covered fields, up the hill and to the top of the memorial where we sat in silence, side by side, looking down on the empty park, the loud orange clouds and the city spread out all around us. When it was time to go he stood up, grabbed his leash and led me back down the hill to a nice, undisturbed patch of snow where we resumed our play.

I wonder what he thinks when I take him out into a world remade in white. I'm meticulous about rotating out his toys, giving him his Buddy for a few weeks before exchanging it for his Baby and then eventually replacing that with his Berry. Does he think I'm in charge of the snow, too; that I pick and choose when it falls and when he can enjoy it. There was a desperation in his play tonight, as if he wanted to get his fill of it before it went away again. Does he love me more in the snow, or come April, when the wind turns warm and he can turn his face into it, does he love me more all over again? Or does he just love me?

I know that I could watch him play all day in the snow. And all day in the grass. Or all day in the leaves.

I could watch him play all day.

Homeland Security

Yesterday, shortly after arriving at work, I somehow managed to convince myself that I'd left the front burner on and that the tea kettle was slowly melting, would catch fire and Ken I would be summoned home to find a smoldering pile of ash and cinder, and also a quite few angry-looking neighbors.

I do this; I turn insanely obsessive-compulsive for a few weeks every couple of years. In Chicago I'd drive halfway to work, decide I'd left the coffeepot or the iron on, or that the windows were open and someone would break into the house, before I consciously knew what I was doing, I'd flip a U-turn and drive 30 minutes back home only to discover the coffeepot and iron off and our two golden retrievers, Ashley and Nikki, sitting up in the closed windows watching me and loving me despite my obvious mental illness. I have no idea if other people do this (please fess up if so!), and would love to know that I'm not too far outside the realm of normal mania.

Amber was in the middle of telling an endless and boring story about several other people we work with when I thought, I don't remember turning the kettle off. On and on she went, who said what to whom and what she thought about the whole situation. I bet the burner is red and smoking even as I sit and listen to this inane story, I told myself. I know my eyes kind of glazed over and Amber's voice turned into the buzzing of a nasty florescent bulb. I bet the kettle is made with lead paint. I bet it comes from China. The cats are running wild, trying to dodge the toxic fumes. Those damn Chinese are at it again, trying to kill our pets. Amberamberamber in the background. She's going to Hawaii for two weeks just as my corner of the world is turning cold and brown. I don't have to listen to her. In five days she'll be sitting on a beach surrounded by palm trees and surf boards. Screw her! Duncan is probably scratching at the door, whimpering for help, unable to understand why his papa would allow this to happen to him, allow the Chinese-lead-based-tea-kettle industry to tear our family apart. Something must be done.

"I'm sorry," I cut Amber off and stand up. "I'm pretty sure I turned my stove off but I need to check. I'm going home. It's insanely OCD, I know, but I'll make myself sick if I don't go now."

Amber has seen me sick, has seen me manic and hopped up on Wellbutrin, and she's my friend, which means she knows better than to question me when I get like this. "Okay, go home," she says, and instantly her voice ceases to sound like the voicees of grown-up in Charlie Brown cartoons.

And then I'm off, driving the eight minutes it takes to get home. I imagine coming across the burning mass of my building, firetrucks and onlookers gathered around, their shapes coming and going amid the dark smoke. Briefly I envision myself leaping selflessly into the flames to rescue our chillins, as we call them, our three cats and Duncan. Would The Post cover the story? What about The Rocky Mountain News? Will there be an outpouring of support for me in my loss and grief? Will Oprah ask me on?

Thankfully the building is exactly as I left it 45 minutes earlier, quiet and almost stately looking with the sun shining on the upper floors. The grass is wet and the sky is high and blue and it's a perfect Autumn morning in every way. A Hollywood set designer could not have placed the leaves more perfectly on the trees and at the base of their trunks. Someone jogs by, and then a woman with her baby stroller pushes past.

Ah, life is good, I almost think, and then, Maybe the Chinese have devised a way to make these lead-ridden tea kettles simmer a long time before they burst into flame and spray kettle shrapnel and cinders of chamomile tea leaves every which way. I better check.

So I unlock the door and step inside. The cats are in conference in the middle of the living room looking guilty and shocked to see me as if they've been planning an attack. Pip scampers away, leaving Winnie and Olive to cover. Winnie turns her back and begins grooming her paws nonchalantly. Olive flashes her best baby eyes at me as I move inside toward the kitchen.

Duncan does not appear, which is most unusual.

The first thing I do is check the burner. It's off. The kettle is still warm from my Egyptian Licorice tea so I move it to the back burner, scan all the knobs and tell myself they're all off. Satisfied, I inspect the coffeepot. The kitchen is all clear. I have successfully averted another attack by the Chinese.

But still no Dunc.

I find him in the bedroom, his Buddy tucked under his chin, resting peacefully on my pillows, eyes closed and smiling. He doesn't move. I don't know if he even really knows I was there.
How's that for Homeland Security?!

Happy Birthday

My mother is the grandmother she always wanted to be. Although I don't have children for her to dote on, she's done a number on Winnie and Pip, Olive and finally Duncan. As a good grandma I don't think she'd ever pick favorites, but I imagine she's particularly fond of Dunc. It's her job to spoil him as only a grandmother can, and that means sneaking him treats and allowing him to get away with all sorts of things he can't get away with when his papa and dad are around. Ken and I had worked hard at training him to stay off the counter and not beg for food, and Duncan did a pretty good job of it until his first Christmas when my mother couldn't help but give him a heaping bowl of turkey and stuffing with gravy and all sorts of other goodies. From that moment on he's been a handful. Although he won't take food off your plate while you eat, he will stare you down and make it extremely uncomfortable for you to finish a meal. In fact, I don't think I've eaten a single dinner in the past three years without telling him to stop staring at me.

Grandma is already looking forward to Christmas when we drive home to Idaho and she gets to indulge him again.

Today is her birthday and although he's not able to be there with her, he did want to share his Buddy.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

Wet Dog Weekend and Beyond

It was a gray, wet weekend and both Duncan and I are grateful it's passed, Duncan because once again he gets nice long walks through the park, rolls on the grass and the exhilaration of hunting squirrels, and me, because as much as I like looking at the rain and walking through it, and whistling Autumny songs into the wind, I hate damp shoes and socks. My wonderful dog tromps through all sorts of muck at the park (especially after they started draining the lake and flooding the back side near the pavilion) and doesn't think twice about it. My pant cuffs get a little wet and I can't get comfortable for hours. Rain in my face and hair, even down my shirt is fine; it's wet shoes I can't stand. Duncan comes home wet and he couldn't be happier. Being wet means being in need of extra love, and that means jumping on the couch to cuddle and offering to help fold laundry fresh from the drier and rolling across clean floors, which is fine because as Ambrose Bierce says, "The most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog." But now that Autumn is finally accepting my challenge and giving us a run for our money, I've started worrying about wet shoes and snow drifts and ice on Bowles. I worry about how dark it's getting and Duncan being disappointed in me for not taking him out in the sunshine and throwing the ball across the green fields. But perhaps I worry too much. Duncan isn't thinking about tomorrow or the day after that. He's thinking about the cool air and grass we played in tonight, about the squirrel we treed, which cursed at us above the roar of traffic on the street. He's thinking about the Black Forest Venison and Lamb he had for dinner and his Buddy, the stuffed opossum who's face and tail he's chewed off. He's thinking about chasing Pip around the apartment later and maybe seeing if he can talk me into sharing a bite of the banana bread I baked yesterday. I should follow his example and stop worrying about the wet. It's inevitable and there's nothing as fruitless as worrying about that. I'll worry about running out of banana bread instead.

My Dog, the Genius

Duncan, who amazes me every day, who knows how to sit and stay and come and fetch, who can not only give you a high five, but can also give you ten, Duncan, who can differentiate between his Baby (a squirrel), his Buddy (an opossum) and his Berry (a teddy bear), who knows his yellow bone from his blue bone, Duncan, who tended to me two years ago when I was sick and kept his weight against me when I was so dizzy I had to crawl to the bathroom, who, during several of my attacks climbed up on the couch, laid down on top of me and taught me to match my breathing to his in order to calm down, Duncan, who consoles me on those occasions when I watch the sad movie (or TV show or–okay, already!– the occasional commercial), my dog, the insane genius who I've praised and praised and talked up and down, got his head stuck between the bars in the fence tonight.

My son makes me proud. Yes indeedy! Quick, call MENSA!