Walking Away

Early this morning, before the sky had turned blue and was still playing with pinks and golds, before the soccer and baseball crowds claimed the entirety of the park for themselves, the geese and gulls wandered freely, paddling along the shore of the lake, waddling across the fields still covered by their fading, crumbling tootsie roll droppings. It was nice to see the gulls, to sit on the hillside above the water and watch them hover over the shore, the cuh-reek cuh-reek of their voices echoing off the trees and the backs of the strip malls which line the north shore. Duncan rolled in the loose yellow grass, pleased with the way it clung to him, snorting joyously when it refused to be shaken loose, even after I slid my hand along his back to brush it away. He'd found a nice stick and pranced around, plopping down next to me occasionally before galloping off again.

I watched the geese, their comings and goings, the way they flocked together in tight groups and seemed to follow one another as they plodded through the muddy bank then up the grass and into the dim promise of the slow-to-rise sun. They did not venture far from one another as they waded through the flocks and seeing them was a bit like watching the families which fill the playground each afternoon: Father and Mother drive up, unload the strollers and toys and lead their flock of children to the red, yellow and blue plastic behemoth assembled in a pit of wood chips and sand. And when it's time to go Father and Mother gather them all again and herd them back to the van.

The geese, though, after sticking so closely to the same three or four others, eventually drift apart, losing them amid the crowd, and while they may crane their heads back and forth for a bit, barking for their lost friends, even that seems to grow wearisome. By the time a loose golden lab charged down the hill at them, shattering the flock into pieces and driving them into the air above our heads, I was pretty sure their old acquaintances meant nothing, had been forgotten in the rush of flight. I watched one group veer toward the golf course and another head south, perhaps as far as the reservoir at Chatfield. And I wondered, do they pine for the friendships they made on this morning? Do they even remember?

It all seems so casual, these animal relationships, the meeting and the parting. And as I disassemble the life Ken and I began thirteen years ago, I can't help but wonder if their way isn't easier. For the goose or the gull, or the skulk of foxes who have carved out a den in the field on the southern side of the prairie dog town, there is no dividing of lives, reliving of memories, fond fingering of gifts and cards and mementos. They simply walk away. I am not so fortunate. I have to pack my things and watch as Ken packs his. I have to wonder if at the end of this separation we have agreed to, whether we will ever share another Thanksgiving dinner at the dining room table we picked out together, whether our bed will ever hold the six of us again, Duncan sprawled between us, Winnie on my hip, Pip at my chest, one paw resting on Ken's elbow, Olive roosting like an owl on the pillows above our heads, her eyes wide and yellow. There is no walking away. Not when you're in love and confused and unsure of what the future holds for you.

Duncan and I will always walk, but this time, just this once, I'd give anything to know the destination.

Promise and Potential

Denver almost seems a foreign land since our return from Idaho earlier this week. Pocatello was drowning in snow and the road crews were unable to keep up with the accumulation, which, after being ignored for several days, made driving unpleasant. The roads were icy with deep ruts carved into them and getting anywhere--which normally only takes ten or fifteen minutes--became an almost monumental affair. Denver's roads are blessedly clear, though. In fact all of Denver is clear. You'd be hard-pressed to find snow anywhere except up in the mountains. Even the foothills are barren, their golden grass matted but still visible. The temperatures have been hovering in the low 60's all week, and even the nights are pleasant with warm breezes and clear, cloudless skies. We have walked and walked and played in the sun at the park and today I took Duncan down to Chatfield where he spent so much time swimming last summer. The ponds were iced over and I kept him well away from them, but he didn't seem to mind, running wildly among the trees and low bushes, playing chameleon in the long grass, a silly Golden grin spread wide across his face, warming my heart and holding tomorrow's cooler temperatures at bay if only a little longer.

Why anyone would share their lives with any dog other than a Golden Retriever is beyond me. There is no magic quite like it. With Duncan at my side this new year is full of promise and potential.

Bigger Than Himself

Somehow, despite my best efforts, I have raised a jock. Duncan is wildly athletic, something I have spent most of my life avoiding--except for that brief stint when I ran cross-country back in junior high and high school. Duncan, though, prefers running to walking, seems to love snow more than dry warm grass, enjoys steep hills more than wide flat places, and swims the lakes at Chatfield until I have to drag him out. He loves my mother very much (although it could be argued that he loves her fingers specifically, because they slip him turkey and gravy whenever my back is turned) but it's possible he loves her mountain even more. Despite the fifteen plus inches of snow which have fallen since we've been here, he's dragged me up the hill through the wide drifts, deep into the juniper where he snorts and sniffs out the deer, which, I believe, may have replaced rabbits as his favorite fascination. He does not care that the hair on his legs and chest get deeply matted with enormous snowballs or that ice lodges under his pads. He simply stops where he is, picks his feet clean with his tongue and teeth and moves ever upward. The snow has covered much of the sage, drifting up around it and making sheltered little igloos beneath where the bunnies can roost. Duncan insists on investigating each of them and leaving a nice little calling card once he's done. Nothing on that mountain is beneath his attention and no place is beyond his reach.


This morning we climbed the hill again and then once I was fully exhausted I dragged him back down and to the street, where we walked until we came upon the horse pasture halfway down the lane. Dunc has never seen a horse up close so I pulled him over, patting their big heads while he dug around in the snow at my knees oblivious to their presence. Finally one of the big ones leaned down and huffed at him, blowing big steam in his face. Duncan froze and looked up, right into those two wide brown eyes and promptly lost control of his legs. They gave out from under him and his rump went down hard in the snow. Perhaps he thought their legs were merely fence posts or the trunks of sapling, I don't know. I do know that he'd never looked at something quite so big which could also look back at him. After several moments of consideration his legs resumed operation and he scooted behind me, keeping my big blue George Costanza coat between the horses and himself. When I stepped sideways, he did the same, much as he does at the fountain in the park in the summer. It must have seemed an eternity that we stood there while I scratched between the ears of the three horses which ambled over to investigate us. Finally he jumped up on my legs, whimpered pitifully and dragged me away from the fence and back onto the road where he led me straight back to Grandma's couch. Which is where he's been ever since.

Sometimes it's good, even for a dog, to have an expanded world view.

Red Tonic

Summer is holding tight but we are on the brink of Autumn, tumbling, gracefully and slowly, like cotton drifting down from the trees, but tumbling nonetheless. It was a magnificent day, clear and bright, far warmer than it looked from my bedroom window when I opened my eyes and peered out through the blinds. I bundled up in the jacket I've started wearing on our morning walks and quickly discovered it wasn't needed. And because there aren't many more days when the water at Chatfield will still be warm enough to enjoy, Melissa and I decided to take Kona and Duncan there to run free across the forested trails, only barely beginning to burn with Autumn's fever, and to swim in the series of small lakes that have recently become our favorite place to walk.


It's hard to believe that only a month ago Duncan refused to play in the water. Now it's all I can do to keep him out of it. Long before the trail reaches the lake, Duncan has already mounted the last rise and thrown himself into the water long enough to get completely wet before scampering back down the hill to urge me forward at a faster pace and share in his discovery (which means he waits to shake himself dry until he's standing right beside me). And while I stroll the trails which wind among the meadows and trees which line the shore, Duncan is content to paddle beside me, climbing out of the water as rarely as possible. Then there is that moment when we reach the far, wide beach where all the other dogs have gathered. Duncan gallops through the water, heaving his body upward and forward, undulating as he goes and leaving a gentle wake behind him, always diligent about keeping his nose, and sometimes only his nose above the surface. There is nothing shy or trepidacious about his arrival as he plunges into the crowds of wagging tails and butts waiting to be sniffed. He will steal a ball or floaty toy from any dog regardless of size or health, swim halfway across the lake to catch someone else's stick and then forget about it and release it as soon as another is tossed from the shore. He's become quite good at abandoning his own toys far out into the water in favor of chasing another, racing along beside a newfound friend only to snatch it from them once they can touch bottom again, which usually results in a discussion about what it means to share. He listens patiently but I can see in his eyes that he's already forgotten my name and only hears that voice reserved for adults in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

Kona does not swim but prefers to wade just up to the point where she can still feel the muddy bottom against the very tips of her toes. Instead she likes to run up and down the shore, sometimes ploughing right over other dogs and even their human companions. After being knocked down several times I've started referring to her as "Tank." But she means no harm and is quite sweet, standing by Duncan's side and wading out to greet him after a long swim leaving his toys floating out somewhere in the middle.


The walk back is a winding one but doesn't seem to last as long as the walk to the water. Especially now that Autumn has flared up and is painting the trees, the heart-shaped leaves and slinking vines along the path in heavy golds and reds, which creeps like a virus overhead. As much as Autumn hurts my spirit, I can not help marvel at her pallet and the slowness and stealth of her infection in these early days. Everywhere I turned was a wonder to be found, erupting amid the blades of grass, spilling down from walls of ivy, wrapping around weathered trunks.




Autumn's infection is remarkable, beautiful and calm, tricking us into believing she's anything but fatal. And in these early days, the days I could write long and hard about, I don't mind one bit. I have a my red dog at my side, always waiting on the path ahead, a tonic against the winter to come.

Chatfield

Duncan was not happy with me this morning. After his Big Day of Adventure he'd decided that staying at home with the cats and lounging across the bed was no longer his style. No, he'd tasted the high life with Aunt Sarah, who, on Sunday took us to Chatfield, the most glorious dog park in the world and followed that up with an afternoon of fun and games in her backyard. He fully expected today would contain more of the same. But as I prepared to leave for work, without filling the doggy day-out bag I'd packed the morning before, he figured it out pretty fast. Our typical morning ends with Duncan sitting in front of the door to see me off, followed by a mad dash to the bedroom window where he watches me climb into the car and drive away. This morning, however, when it became obvious he would resume his old life, he pouted, hid under the bed and refused to even peek out to see me go.

Upon my return home this afternoon I decided he deserved another romp at Chatfield and so we packed up, got into the car and drove ten minutes to what must surely be Denver's Doggy Disneyland, a vast expanse of open space, forest, and scenic trails punctuated by the Platte River, several large ponds and the reservoir. When Dunc realized where I was taking him he had to bite the seatbelt to keep from whimpering in joy. And once we were there, there was no containing him. He dragged me down the trail and almost before we'd hit the first pond he was soaking wet.

Now remember, Duncan has never been the kind of dog who enjoys the water.

At all.

No, sir, not one bit.

I guess he got over it. At some point he decided he'd much rather swim than walk and so while I strolled the path through the woods that spring up all around, Duncan followed beside me, paddling as though he's done it every day of his life. There was nothing I could say to get him to join me on land, until we met up with Jo and her two dogs, Shelby, a Black Lab she rescued and rehabilitated, and Lady, another Golden, who is just as dark and just as sweet as Duncan. Duncan decided they were his new best friends and spent much of the next hour racing for the ball Jo and I kept tossing far out into the water. Lady tended to stay on the shore, running up and down to greet new dogs, occasionally wading out a bit, but not going too far. Jo was an easy person to talk to, friendly and funny, and I look forward to running into her again.

But finally it was time to leave. There was a convention downtown (you may have heard something about it and have hopefully been tuning in!) that needed watching and the sun was beginning to set. We said our farewells and while I followed the path around the other side of the pond, Duncan paddled along beside me, only getting out of the water once it was clear there was no other place to go.

He reluctantly joined me on land and despite much whining and resistance, and with one last long look back, he climbed into the car, willing to return to his bland life among the cats and our meager jungle of spider plants, avocado and dragon trees, but only on the condition that we return again as soon as possible.


It's a promise I intend to keep.