Feathers for Flight for a Friend

“Every fear hides a wish.” David Mamet

Recently an old college friend, Koko Cooper, who directed me on stage in David Mamet's Duck Variations––the performance of which I am probably proudest––announced that she'd accepted a new job, the training for which would require her to fly here to Colorado for a few days. Koko was a good friend, kind and patient, and incredibly generous, so when I read about her fear and the experiences she's had flying, I knew what I had to do. She had to have one of my magic feathers. They did wonders for me when I was preparing for my flight to Buffalo last year and I figured maybe all she needed was a little extra magic to get her off the ground.

So last week Duncan and I dumped all the feathers I've collected over the years onto the coffee table and went through them. The table, a heavy and dark tiled thing, turned into a rainbow of memories and inspiration. I took a long time going through them, running my fingers along their sleek bodies, strumming the music from them, holding each up to Duncan for his inspection. Finally, he seemed to settle on a nice red one, bright and vivid, a parrot feather my friend David had sent me. I picked out a simple card with a puffin on it, a bird most people falsely believe doesn't fly despite the fact that it does, and slipped it into the mail.

It has arrived safely in Chicago, ready for Koko to carry with her onto the plane that will bring it back to Colorado. It will not bring her luck but the kind of magic that is familiar with the air, with its currents and calms, with the serenity of boundless blue space, and the strength to accomplish whatever it is she sets out to do. She doesn't yet know that that magic resides deep within herself, but I have faith the feather will whisper its secrets to her as it whispered them to me. 

Koko, you will be fine. And if we can see each other after these eighteen long years, I will experience the magic of that feather again. Be strong and brave, my friend. The feather will carry you far.

"Ducks!"

Endorsement

Tomorrow is the big day. 

It's been difficult not to think about, not only because of the endless stream of ads on television, but because each and every time Duncan and I venture out we are forced to navigate an army of signs in yards and adorning the bumpers and windows of cars on the streets (my own included). But that is not the only reason I have been thinking about it.

This election directly impacts my life and the people I love. This election is about more than which candidate is the handsomest or speaks the best. This election is about very real issues, such as health care, education, equal pay, a woman's right to choose, improving the economy, and of course, the one closest to me, LGBT rights. A lot of progress has been made to improve the lives of so many people these past four years, and to fix the mess the idiocy of the last administration left for this one to clean up. It's easy for people to overlook the accomplishments President Obama has made, especially for the morons who watch FOX "News" and allow others to do their thinking for them. It's easy to believe the Republicans who would have you believe he has done nothing to improve our lives, especially when his opponents in the Republican party worked so hard to obstruct every ounce of legislation he sought to push through Congress. It's far too easy to be a sheep and follow along without ever breaking stride and doing what is honestly right.

It took fourteen years (and a world war) for this country to recover from the Great Depression. You'd have to be an utter imbecile to believe the President could accomplish a complete recovery from the mess of Bush's Great Recession. And now we have this jerk, Mitt Romney, a supposed business man, who believes he can do it when he couldn't even manage Massachusetts when he was governor. Do not trust him. His devotion is to his church and his wealthy friends, not you and not me.

I love my partner. I have loved him for the past seventeen years and believe with all my soul we deserve the same rights married people everywhere have. I do not want to fear what would happen if one of us got sick or died. I want to be able to stand up in front of my friends and family and celebrate our relationship. I want to be treated equally. Those things will not happen under Romney. Rather, every gain we have made will be erased and soon we'll be further back than we were under Bush.

Four years ago I received a letter from my good friend David, who wrote:

This election has inflamed the best and the worst of this nation. We will, each of us, vote according to our character and collectively define the character of the Unites States. The election booth will become a sort of civic confessional in which we exercise our faith in this country. I vote tomorrow. I have waited a long time, and it will feel good to finally have my say.

I am asking you to vote according to your character in the hope that your vote will help define the character of this country. Vote for progress and equality, for the health of this nation, for a woman's right to choose and to be paid equally. Vote to reelect President Obama. If you're a woman who has the tiniest amount of self-respect, who supports Planned Parenthood and the good work they do over a wide range of issues, especially breast cancer prevention, if you're gay or love someone who is gay and want to see us treated equally and fairly, if you have children in college or about to enter college, if you want to ensure all Americans have access to health care, if you believe in helping those who are less fortunate, if you want to continue to see the economy recover and not slip back into the desolation of the Bush administration, if you have any morals whatsoever, vote Barack Obama.

Do the right thing. Do the patriotic thing. Do the moral thing. There are no questions. It's obvious.

Buffalo Wings: A Magic Feather Update (4)

How beautiful a day can be
When kindness touches it!
(George Elliston)

It has been an incredible week for feathers, humbling and emotional, bright and full of untethered hope and encouragement.

My friend David, who has been with me since those long-ago-days at Barnes and Noble back in the safe confines of The Shire-like Midwest, who I have known longer than I have known Ken, and who has been as true as steel, sent me an incredible box full of every kind of feather imaginable, from giant, magnificent parrot feathers––metal blue on one side and sunlight gold on the other––to the tiniest, most delicate fluffs of white no bigger than a baby's fingernail. There are no words to express my awe and gratitude at his generosity and faith in me. I love him like I love the Russian Olives, like I love the appearance of the flowers on the Lindens, like I love the first true day of Spring.

Lori, my faithful friend, first blog buddy, and published author, and her wonderful husband Tom, sent me a peacock tail feather that dazzles my eye. It was tucked into a box that contained an incredible afghan that Lori spent weeks crocheting just for me. While it arrived in the hottest day of the year and won't be getting much use for quite awhile, it is sure to bring as much comfort on a cold winter night as her feather will on my flight. Meeting and getting to know Lori and Tom has brought me unspeakable joy and I am forever in their debt.

Jyoti, another amazing person I met through our blogs and a shared love of Golden Retrievers, sent a gorgeous card with a beautiful dog print and a single beautiful feather tucked inside. It is striped and soft, as vibrant and strong as her spirit and will make an excellent traveling companion. Jyoti is the owner of Sedona Body and Soul in Sedona, AZ. If you're in the area and need a massage, or have health issues that you'd like treated holistically, please pay her a visit and let her know Duncan and Curt sent you. She's a remarkable person and I'm lucky to have found her.

Kemia, one of my oldest and dearest friends, sent a feather she found recently while visiting Croatia. I have known Keem since before I could grow a mustache and have been blessed by her place in my life every day since we first spoke. She has seen me through my awkward adolescence, the challenges of college, and the triumphs of becoming the man I am. Few people have had the kind of faith in me that she has and my life has been forever altered and improved for her place in it. On her card she wrote, 

"My sole intention for you since my journey began was to cast you bravely into the world, and every step along the way I have meditated upon you and wished and prayed for your heart to be still so you can easily take flight. So, so many places await you and require your artists eye and writers pen..." 

Thank you, Keem. From the bottom of my heart. You are an inspiration.

I received a wonderful letter from my father who included an ink drawing of a feather. His words of encouragement moved me deeply and knowing his feather came from his own hand, was drawn with love and faith, brought me to tears. Thank you, dad, for your belief in me. It means more than you will ever know.

And finally I received a packet of feathers my mother sent. Several weeks ago on Memorial Day she and Kevin and my uncle Dennis visited my grandparents grave only to discover several feather laid out neatly near Grandpa's headstone. My grandfather was a dedicated fly-fisherman and spent countless nights tying his own flies, many of them from the feathers he found on his long walks. Mom grabbed them, knowing how much they would mean to me, how remarkable they were. I miss you, Grandpa. Thank you for your gift. Skinadinkinaw!

And thank you to all the people who have supported and encouraged me on this next phase in my recovery. These past few weeks have touched me deeply, brought me to tears, overwhelmed me with the goodness and generosity out there in the world. I am the luckiest person alive to have been touched by so many remarkable souls and wonder what I possibly could have done to deserve so much kindness. I cannot express how deeply you have all impacted my life, strengthened my spirit when I need it most, and brought one silly man in Colorado so much joy.

As a reminder, my family and I will be leaving for Buffalo on Wednesday of next week. If you'd like to send me a feather it's not too late. While I will never stop accepting your feathers, the deadline for entering my contest will end on the 15th when one lucky winner's name will be drawn to receive a thank you prize from Duncan and myself. To request my address please send me an email with the words, "Feathers for Flight" in the subject line. The winner will be drawn on the 15th. Please include the name and kind of pet/s you have, if that's the case.

Again, thank you all.

Thank You

The last few years have been some of the most challenging of my life and at times it's been difficult to find things for which to be thankful but this year my blessings are easily recognizable and I am can say for the first time since my family lost my grandmother in 2004 I am truly grateful and humbled by the blessings that have found their way into my life. On this incredible Thanksgiving afternoon, on a warm, sunny Denver day, I am thankful for

• Ken, who was able to find his way back home to Denver, and for the time we've been able to spend together since, rebuilding our family and bringing new life into these nearly sixteen years we've been a part of each others lives.
• the smell of homemade pumpkin pie first thing in the morning.
• Kevi, who reminded me this morning that we should be thankful for our troubles, for they too have purpose: to make us stronger and to help us truly appreciate the blessings that we have found.
• Patty Griffin's song "Heavenly Day," in which she sings, "No one on my shoulder / Bringing me fears / Got no clouds up above me / Bringing me tears / Got nothing to tell you / I got nothing much to say / Only I'm glad to be here with you / On this heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly day."
• The good people I work with, who are supportive and kind, who make me laugh and think equally hard, who have become a sort of family to me.
• The poetry of Mary Oliver.
• The soft weight of cats sleeping against me on cold nights.
• My family, who seem to get stronger and closer every day, especially my sister, Casey, who had a difficult year but has shone brighter than ever before.
• The memories I have of the people who have walked with me, if only for a time, and shared so many special experiences, from April and the WNG to Marc, who knows he's smarter than me; from Kelly and The Dirt People to John, who has cow dreams; from Little Ruth to David, who taught me that not only are things good, but they're good for you; from Karren and her cookies to Rick, who understands the butterflies as well as I do.
• The power of Skinadinkinaw!
• The "It Gets Better Project" and Dan Savage for changing so many lives.
• Russian Olive and Linden trees for being sweet enough to get me through the entire year.
• Orion standing watch over these Autumn skies.
• Facebook and the connections it has restored.
• Duncan, for his ability to say "I love you," for his voice and eyes, his delight and wisdom, for the miles we have walked and will continue to walk, for the courage he has taught me and the dreams he has encouraged, and for being with me, not only during the difficult days, but the kind ones as well.
• 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."

And I am thankful to all the people who have joined Duncan and me on our walks through this blog, who comment and email and love him as much as I do. You have all enriched my life in countless ways.

Blessings to you, this Thanksgiving Day. May they be too numerous to count.

Well

Summer seemed to end last Saturday when the weather turned from bright and almost unbearably hot to miserable and wet, gray with low clouds and a steady mist of rain. September, that wretched bitch of a month, took over with a dreary vengeance and my health followed suit.

 

I have been sick for the past several days and Duncan has had just about enough of it.

I am one of those people who chooses to bask in whichever bug has taken up residence in my body. I am not like my friend David, who gets dressed and goes about his day as though nothing is wrong, tending to chores and taking sensible care of himself. No, I am exactly like my friend Kevi, who, like me, has somehow managed to turn illness into an art-form. First I construct a nice little nest for myself on the couch, selecting only the softest pillows from my bed and a nice warm blanket to wrap myself in. On the coffee-table I assemble a wide variety of brightly-colored medicines, juices, water bottles, balms, ointments, tissues, syrups and inhalants, regardless of whether or not I plan on using them; their rainbow colors are somehow soothing and invigorating and it is comforting knowing they're there should I need them. I bring whatever book I'm reading and lay out several DVDs, usually television shows, which are quick and easy to watch and easier to fall asleep to and wake up without feeling as though I've missed anything. The blinds get drawn, the tea kettle is always on low, maintaining a nice steady simmer should my mug require a refill. The cats are invited to take up their perches on my hip and against my chest while Duncan nestles down on the floor below me and we all settle in for what always proves to be a miserably wonderful convalescence.

And then I proceed to moan. Moaning, regardless of whether or not anyone is close enough to hear, is a morbid and delightful remedy and I find I enjoy it very much. The cats don't seem to mind; in fact, sometimes it encourages them to be extra lovey and snugly. Even Dunc is kind enough to whimper along with me, occasionally finding the perfect harmony for an afternoon of misery.

After days of witnessing his papa languish on the couch, and nights hearing him gurgle and moan and sputter under a pile of pillows and scattered sheets and blankets, this evening he decided he'd had enough. The weather has turned nice, my cough has finally subsided and my fever seems to have settled down a bit so I humored him, climbed off the couch, scattering cats and tissues and vapor rubs in one quick motion, dressed myself in something other than sweats and a ratty t-shirt, and took him outside. He's been anxious to practice catching the muslin-covered Frisbee I bought him for his birthday so I donned a hoodie, grabbed his new toy and walked with him down The Run to The Glen. I wasn't feeling well enough to venture across the street to the park where the Soccer Hoards have assembled again, and where the frightful Columbine Marching Band has taken up their horrific mangling of music (and you all know how I feel about marching bands!) so we settled on the lip of the earthen bowl of The Glen, Duncan sprinting down one side, his head craned back keeping his eye on the Frisbee, then back up the other side to catch it (or not, as the case seems to be, although his aim is improving). The cool evening air felt wonderful and the last light of the sun was refreshing in my eyes and on my skin. Finally, when we'd both had enough of the Frisbee (it seems I need as much practice throwing the thing as he does catching it) he settled down in the cool grass and watched me close my eyes and turn my face into the setting sun. After a few minutes he ambled up beside me, pushed his cold nose against the palm of my hand and licked my wrist. I patted his head as a dragonfly zipped between us.

Duncan jumped after it, his tail high, his eyes wide with wonder, a delighted grin wide on his face.  I watched as the dazzling metallic green of its wings and its impossibly slender blue body darted back and forth around him until it came to a standstill before him, just above his nose. The two seemed to stare at each other for a long moment and I was reminded of that scene from Bambi, the one my grandmother quilted onto my baby blanket, with Bambi watching the butterfly flutter about before settling quietly onto his tail.

It was a lovely evening, and even though my chest still feels thick and heavy and my fever hasn't quite decided what it wants to do for the night, I believe I won't be moaning and Duncan will be content with the medicine he fed my spirit today.

A Night Like Tonight

I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
And every thought's a possibility
And voices are heard, but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me
May be an equal mystery.
(Indigo Girls, "Mystery")

We had a late walk––a delicious walk––with children running to Dunc to pat his back and scratch his chin, a vivid tangerine sunset followed by night so dark and clear it seemed we could see faces smiling back at us from the planets above. We played fetch around the few vendor trailers and kiosks which are beginning to arrive for this weekend's Summerset festival, and the air was sweet in a way that it hasn't been for weeks. At the end of August David commented that the world was weary of Summer; the flowers had withered, the air was stagnant and exhausted and even the sky seemed bleached and weary of the season. "Enough already," he sighed. But I wish he had been there tonight in the park with us, where pockets of sweet coolness hung above the fields and the candied breeze somehow smelled of Russian Olives and Lindens, Spring and mint all at once. Duncan chased his ball tirelessly and then rolled in the thick grass with a vigor he reserves for snow and wind. On a night like tonight Summer seems to want to last forever and I want nothing more than to throw my arms around it and beg it to carry us southward with it, dancing under the skies of stars and singing songs only the crickets know by heart.

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. (P.D. James)

To:

David and Greg,

Trees are the earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.  

(Rabindranath Tagore, Fireflies, 1928)

Ah, my flowering friends. The two of you have spent so much time trying to teach me the names of things, the pretty blossoming things which have brought me so much joy. I am  a poor pupil because the names are not as magical to me as their beauty, and despite their poetry, sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, the dreamer in me can't help but I appreciate them all the more for not knowing what to call them--like the pretty girl I passed in the park last year, the one stooped over her guitar, whisper-singing a song to the wind. Or the shapes of the clouds which transfix me as I lay on my back next to Roo on hot summer days. I do not need to know a cumulonimbus from a stratus, and discovering that perhaps my little singer was really called Wanda would somehow break her spell and the serenity of her memory. The color and scent, the way they catch the dew or bend with the breeze, creep up the side of an elm, these are all that matter to me of the flora of this world.

And yet there are a few that I remember. David, you introduced me to Jack-in-the-Pulpit, which is almost obscene but brings a smile to my face when I reflect on it. Greg, your Bachelor Buttons have filled me with untold joy. Perhaps I am richer for knowing the names, but I think I am richer for having been told them by you.

Duncan led me down to the lake today and as we neared my nose picked out that one scent that sustains me throughout the year, the honey, mint butter fragrance of my precious Russian Olives, now finally coming into bloom. I would gladly spend any afternoon with you, but I can imagine none more perfect than walking you across a hillside of Russian Olives, asking you to close your eyes as I cup the reedy branch with its delicate yellow flowers toward your face. I would explain to you that while some people have songs and music, or poems or films that best express the story of their lives, mine would be perfectly encapsulated by the sweet, heady scent of those tiny petals. And because you understand the magic of growing things and because you can hear with your hearts, you would understand and perhaps know me better than most people.

That would be the greatest gift I could offer you, and your silence and reflection at that moment would be the greatest you could give in return.

Superior Scribbler

My friend Lori over at Fermented Fur, who I've had the distinct honor of actually meeting and walking with, recently (okay, not so recently) bestowed an award on yours truly for his (on again/off again) efforts at chronicling his adventures (both mis- and otherwise) with his best friend, Duncan. Lori is a gem, a truly gifted writer with a razor sharp wit and a heart of gold and this award means a lot especially since my reports of walks with Duncan have been rather lax as of late. Although I may not have been writing as much as I have in the past, Duncan and I continue to walk and my little "outpost" on the internet (as David calls it) is never far from my mind and heart. Each of my readers, especially those who comment and support us, are like stars in the sky and I feel blessed to have encountered each of you.

I'm supposed to name five blogs who also deserve the award, but wouldn't you know, I just don't want to pick from the list on the right. Despite the rules––and you all know how I feel about rules––all the blogs I list are good and I value each of them for the unique joy they bring to my day. To hell with picking just five. They are all superior scribblers in my book. I encourage each of you to pick three of those blogs, ones you have never visited, stop by and leave them a little note, something kind and happy, and tell them you heard about them from Duncan (and me, of course, even though I am Just the Handler).

To read more about the award (and the rules), please visit here.

Thank you, Lori, and thank you to my readers, who have kept me writing, however infrequently, more often than they could guess. But mostly, a hearty, ear-scritching thanks to Roo, who makes me walk whether I want to or not.

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.

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."

A Season of Falls

I have taken tremendous pleasure in our unseasonably warm temperatures over the past several days. My friend David is the recipient of much of my gloating and to his credit, handles it pretty well with only minimal name-calling. This morning, though, I couldn't help but think that perhaps he got a bit of revenge for all my talk of sunshine and temperatures which came awfully close to 80 this week.

I fell asleep on the couch again last night, a bad habit I really need to get a handle on. I had a short but vivid dream of talking on the telephone with David and boasting once again about the perfection of Denver's weather. I could hear him scowl all the way from Illinois and rather than call me a "dirty rat," as he usually does, he said, "You just watch yourself, mister. You'll get yours."

I finally woke up a little after 2 and took Duncan out for one last bathroom break. Our nearly balmy night had been replaced by frigid air and a thick, heavy mist which cast orange rings around the lamps in the park and made the street on the other side of gate shine like a black snake's back. It was a wet mist, and because it was cold it was already freezing. The grass was stiff and slippery and crunched with each tentative and sleepy step Duncan took. I did not envy him having to lean into it to pee.

After he finished we walked around the side of the building just to stretch our legs a bit before heading back inside to the warmth of the two comforters Ken had pulled over the bed. As we came up the slight incline of the front walk in front of our apartment, I felt my feet slip on the fine layer of ice which had formed and before I knew it I was at that place I came to know so well last Winter, the place between the sky and the ground where I hover--arms and legs akimbo--only long enough to anticipate how hard and cold the ground will be when I return to it once again.

Duncan stopped dead and turned just in time to see me come back down, first on all fours, and then when the ice did not approve, flat on my belly, a hhwump sound echoing off the buildings all around. He seemed to shake his head and glance around to make sure Kona or Toby or even the Wretched Hyenas who froth and growl and threaten us from their window next door did not witness my grace. I picked myself up, wiping crystals from my pajamas, some of which slipped down my naked ankle and into my slippers where they stung the soft warm part of my heel.

It is the season I dread most, my season of falls. Let's hope both Duncan's pride and my head survive.

Somewhere I know David is smiling. I got mine.

This Day

On this day, this most important day, the day I have written about and studied and spoken with countless people about for months and months, the day I have argued over and dreamt about, made myself sick over, this day when I really honestly feel as though this country is on the cusp of monumental change, as though things are finally and blessedly about to shift from darkness back into light, I have to stop and give thanks to my dear friend, David. Without his patience and knowledge, without his outrage at the state of our decrepit health care system, his indignation at the treatment of our fellow citizens, without his guidance, I may have spent this election cycle attentive but inactive, concerned but woefully uneducated.

David is a remarkable man and there is much I--and to some degree each of you--owe to him. He is passionate and dedicated, loyal beyond words, and at times, when I have been unsure of myself and the direction of my life, David has been there as only a few others have. Despite the neglect and ignorance which have guided this country for the past eight years, David's belief in its potential is staggering and inspiring. His heart is the heart of a poet, for not only does he see things as they are, but he is able to look beyond them and see what we can be. We have spent innumerable hours over the past year agonizing about this day, this one day when the eyes of the rest of the world are on America, watching and waiting for us to finally, at last, make the right decision. His emails have encouraged me, enlightened me, frightened me, and finally ignited a fire in me that would not go out until I had used what little voice I have to speak up for what is right. It is because of David that I have used this place to rail against the dangerous arrogance which currently controls our government and the ignorance which threatens it again. Because of David I have attended rallies. I have walked the streets handing out leaflets, knocked on doors asking for support. I have spoken with friends who only a few weeks ago seemed beyond reach but have come to realize this country deserves more, deserves better.

In a letter I recently received from him, in an envelope scrawled with his familiar and much-loved handwriting, a single sprig of lavender folded between the pages, as he has done since I moved away from Illinois and the kindly Shire-like folk there, the very people who have given us Barack Obama, David wrote:

This election has inflamed the best and the worst of this nation. We will, each of us, vote according to our character and collectively define the character of the Unites States. The election booth will become a sort of civic confessional in which we exercise our faith in this country. I vote tomorrow. I have waited a long time, and it will feel good to finally have my say.

On this day, this morning when here in Denver the sun is out and the sky is blue, when anything and everything seem possible, I ask you to vote according to your character. I ask you to be brave and look not at the past, but to the future. I ask you to put the last eight years behind us finally and forever and to take a deep breath before we begin the much needed healing of this nation. I ask you to raise your voice and change the world.

*The banner at the top of this post was designed by my friend Kelly, who created it on her blog, Property of Kelly. Not only is she one of my most favorite people, but she's a talented artist and designer.

Keyhole*

Do not praise the day before the sunset. (Dutch Proverb)

This day has been unsure of itself, bright and glorious early in the morning, then shy and pensive throughout the afternoon, peeking out from behind the clouds which passed continuously across its face. There were no tears today, though, and the park and hillsides took full advantage, shaking off their tall grasses, straightening the flowers that have drooped and bent under the weight of falling rain, tucking the water safely down into the earth. It was only as the sunset approached, humid but cool, with a whisper of a breeze, like the flight of ghosts brushing across the skin, that the day decided what to be. And so, as we neared the top of the park and looked down on the sky reflected in the lake, a keyhole opened up in the clouds and all the gold that should have belonged to this weekend but didn't spilled out and ran across the backs of the ducks and pelicans paddling along the shore, flowed over the ripples made by the fish who leap and leave expanding circles behind, never seen but always heard, spilled over into the eyes of all the people on the trail and the hillside and ignited a thousand pearls of gold in their faces––the children who chased each other, laughing with the madness of youth, the parents and grandparents who watched them, the dogs romping through the damp grass behind, the lovers holding hands all around.

It would be easy to think this weekend a waste, the last weekend before school starts and hell erupts at the foot of my desk, but this sunset was worth the wait and apologized for the hours spent pining at the window with Duncan beside me. Standing at my side above the lake, smiling as he does so readily, I know he felt it too.

*For David, who just couldn't wait

Across the Universe

Last week, on the morning the bottom fell out of my world, I made a cup of tea, something I do every morning. Yogi Tea is my favorite and each morning I alternate between Egyptian Licorice and Egyptian Licorice Mint. I have never been a fan of licorice, unless it's the red kind, but as I learned from my wise and wonderful friend David, who alternately channels the voices of a Jewish mother and a Lutheran wife, depending on the urgency and magnitude of the issue at hand, "Red licorice is not really licorice." But this tea, this licorice, is good stuff and I've made it a staple in my home and of my mornings since I gave up caffeine cold turkey three years ago. Prior to the anxiety and the coffee ban I'd never been much of a tea drinker but I think that was because I'd never found a really good, flavorful cup of tea. I'd been raised on Celestial Seasonings, which is watered down, typically bitter and always bland. When my friend Ruth learned of my dislike and the absence of a warm cup of anything from my mornings she sent a care package of tea, lots of it, all of them warm and vibrant, but especially the Yogis, which include a little tab at the end of the string which contain valuable words of wisdom. During the middle days of the anxiety––when I was still wobbly and busy shoring up self-confidence––it was this "daily wisdom" which helped sooth my mind even as the tea calmed my spirit. I took to taping the messages all around my desk at work so that wherever I look I'm reminded of the things which really matter, or receive instruction on how to survive from minute to minute during the worst and busiest parts of the year. They are The Universe's message to me, personalized by my own hand as it pulls a bag of tea from its box.

Last Saturday, when everything seemed upside down and my mind was reeling and it was all I could do to stand still, I brought my red kettle to a boil, sat at the dining room table looking out on the grass and the traffic just beyond that, the slow mechanical clink of the water warming and stirring in the pot building behind me until the first sputter hissed from the kettle and turned into a whistle, which always makes me think of my friend Wendy who would run to the kettle when it erupted in readiness, hands over her ears calling, "Screaming babies! Screaming babies!" I set the bag in my favorite mug, the one with the E.H. Shephard drawings of the Pooh characters doing somersaults and the line running across the base, "Some days are more tumbly than others." I poured the water, watched the bag saturate and change colors then puff up big and fat before turning the water a nice shade of greenish brown. The steam smelled of mint and I closed my eyes, as I always do, and breathed deeply. One way or another everything would be okay, The Universe would do what it does best, which is merely Be the Universe. I watched the water grow darker then pulled the bag from the mug, twisted the string around it to coax out the last of the flavor, plucked the tag from its end and tossed it in the garbage. Sitting back down at the table I blew lightly across the surface of the cup, raised it to my lips and took my first tentative sip, which, not surprisingly, was perfect in every way. I smiled that Make-It-Through-the-Day smile we all have and read the bit of "Daily Wisdom" I clutched between my thumb and middle finger. In small tea-leaf colored letters is said:

Let things come to you

And so the week was spent letting things come to me. My father and Jane arrived not long after and we spent a marvelous afternoon and evening together enjoying old photographs and stories, food and drink, and a long walk with Duncan. My mind was in the moment, not on the other things, and it felt good to show them places that belonged to Dunc and me, to show them the person I've become and maybe talk a bit about the person I still want to be. Then suddenly mom called mid-week and asked if she and Casey could come for a visit this weekend. And then there they were, at my door on Thursday night, as if they'd walked through it a thousand times and it hadn't been nearly eight months since I'd last seen them. A week of family and love and strength brought to me because I let them come, opened myself up and received all they had to give.

And now that they are all gone, back to their homes across the prairies, around the mountains and through the deserts, I am here with Ken and the kittens (who are really cats but will always be my kittens) and Duncan, a family in our own way, just as strong, struggling just as hard, although sometimes it seems we struggle harder, although I know that's not true. Last week I wanted to sit in this room in front of this screen and tell you that every silver lining has a cloud, but the past eight days have changed that and once again I know the opposite is the truth. Goodness and peace swirl around us like the bodies of myriad paper-thin tiny jellyfish we stood enraptured in front of at the aquarium yesterday.

There is a place, a wide dry patch under one of the large trees in The Glen, where there is little color, only the brittle brown and yellow of pine needles, and direct light only on the far end of day when the sun dips low before being extinguished behind the silhouette of the mountains. It is a sheltered spot, but also a forlorn one, forgotten and not very pretty. Duncan pulled on his leash so I dropped it and watched as he bent low under the lowest boughs to sniff a single sprig of green, which had somehow managed to push through the hard cake of earth and rough, sharp points of the needles and reach out for the day's last thin rays of golden light.

There are miracles every day. I know that if you let them, things will come to you. And sometimes, if you love and are loved hard enough, if you're open and very lucky, those things will be good and your walk will be better and easier because of them.

Sounds of laughter shades of earth
are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me.
Limitless undying love which
shines around me like a million suns
and calls me on and on across the universe
(The Beatles, Across the Universe)

The Bully Stick

It stormed heavily last night, with bed-shaking thunder and flashes of lightning long and brilliant enough to read by. All four of the children slept with us, pushing Ken and I off to the far edges of the bed where we teetered and fought for blankets, bunching them in our fists and holding them under our chins in a vain effort to claim some for ourselves. Duncan slept soundly at the foot of the bed but I awoke several times to find him steadily munching on his Bully Stick. Unlike Ashley and Nikki, who were so afraid of our Illinois storms they actually dug a hole through the wall to reach the crawl space under the house, Duncan has never been afraid of thunder. Last night's storm was pretty intense, though, and when I woke up to discover the stick had been gnawed down to its last inch, I wondered if he'd chewed on it to alleviate some anxiety. He's not normally a chewer but tends to lick things instead––socks, sweatshirts, comforters, carpet, quite often until there are holes in them. Because he liked the stick so much I walked him down to Hero's this afternoon, braving yet another rain shower on the way. He plodded along, merrily hitting each of the puddles, taking extra time at trees and shrubs, rolling in the wet grass, oblivious to the rain. By the time we reached the store, though, the sun had come out and Chelsea was ready with another stick for him. He pranced around, head high, the sick clutched between his teeth. He even carried it all the way home, which almost never happens.

Ah, the lengths we go to to keep our friends happy.

What You Give

I have spent much of the last three days preparing for a farewell dinner party for my co-worker, PJ, who is moving to Houston with her family in a few weeks. Amber and I have shopped and planned and finally, yesterday we began cooking. With great encouragement from my mentor, David, I prepared a meal of champagne apricot chicken stuffed with spinach and cheese, served over a bed of lemon-butter pasta with a side of steamed asparagus. It's been a fearful experience, especially since I basically cooked for 15 people, a number far greater than I've ever cooked for before. And luckily, we somehow pulled it off. The meal was delicious (thank you once again, David, for all your advice and support) but the best part, the part that will be remembered is how we all just sat and talked afterward. PJ was amazed that we'd gone to so much trouble for her and that so many people showed up to wish her well. "You get what you give," I told her when we hugged, and I believe that. We receive whatever we put out there in the world.

I was a bit late getting home, or rather, later than I should've been considering Duncan hadn't been let out in nearly eight hours. I was anxious to take care of him, but not exactly excited to walk because the night has turned cold and wet, misty with halos around the lights (like the Illinois nights I fell in love with during college) and the snow is just beginning to fall. Im tired, my heads hurts, my wrenched neck and back are still not happy with me and my belly is warm and full. Walking in the cold is not high on my list of priorities.

But I did it. I came home to a dancing, chirping dog who, despite smelling Amber's dogs on me, was overjoyed to see me, as though I'd been gone for weeks. He jumped up on me, wagged his bum back and forth, and when I knelt down, slathered my face in kisses. Almost immediately my reservations about the walk were gone. I wanted to take him out, wanted to be with him, wanted to experience the night. So we leashed up, grabbed the poop bags and walked down the lawn.

The night was quiet with only a few cars sluicing up water out on the street. The street lights reflected off a million droplets and painted the cement in green, red and brief splashes of gold. The grass, still greening, slowly but surely, finally felt springy rather than crisp and the cool air was good on my cheeks after sitting in Amber and Jesse's warm living room. A rabbit darted past us and we followed him a ways before turning back. We stood near the fence looking out over the park, shrouded in mist, its darkness broken by intermittent pools of gold light and I felt warmed by the thought that we were alone in our noticing of the silence, which so few people experience.

"You get what you give," I told PJ, but I could've told Duncan the same thing as he sat down beside me, pressing his warm body against my leg, his hip resting comfortably on the top of my foot, the two of us watching the world be the world and the night be this night.

A Walk to the Mailbox

There is much I would miss if Duncan was not at my side. I could not tell you how many times I have plodded to one mailbox or another, watching only where I was going (still wise, especially after the minor concussion I suffered Wednesday afternoon after slipping on the sole remaining patch of ice in the parking lot), not looking up, treating the brief walk as little more than a chore. There was no joy in going to the mailbox, except on the occasional arrival of a letter from David or April, or one of the eclectic packages Ruth sometimes sends.

While most of our jaunts to the mailbox are uneventful, at least in my eyes, there's no telling what juicy morsels of information Dunc gleans from all his sniffing (Oh, that saucy little spaniel is in heat, or the floozy boxer won't be in heat for awhile, or even, that macho yellow lab who struts around is no longer quite so macho and will need a few days to get his strut back).

Tonight was a cold one and although I was feeling extremely lazy after my day preparing the champagne apricot chicken for tomorrow night's farewell party dinner for a former co-worker. The apartment was nice and warm, I'd indulged myself in an evening watching my newest guilty pleasure, Battlestar Galactica, and the temperature had fallen quite dramatically after the sun had set, pale and white and not its usual pink and spilled sherbet colors. I didn't want to put my shoes and jacket on and I certainly didn't want to take Duncan because what should normally be a five minute round-trip excursion would turn into thirty minutes of watching him sniff every pole and shrub and flower bed between here and there, and then back again for any late-breaking updates. But, being the good and dutiful papa I am, I leashed him up, grabbed some poop bags and headed off, Duncan leading the way.

Almost immediately the walk became an adventure. Not far down the lane the sound of a thumping bass mmmp-mmmp-mmmped its way into my ears and chest in that disturbing way that occurs at stoplights next to teenagers. The further we walked the louder it got until eventually we were standing two stories below what looked to be a rocking party. While Duncan sniffed I did what anyone would do and looked up at the patio window and straight into the barely-covered g-string ass of some slicked up and oiled-down muscle dude dancing in front of a room full of middle-aged applauding women, their eyes wide, their hands clapping. I could hear the cat-calls and whistles as I looked away––blushing I'm sure––and wondered what exactly the differences between the sexes really were. Not wanting to appear to linger too long, I gave Duncan's leash a quick tug and we continued on our way.

After checking the mail (no letters or eclectic packages to be found) we stopped on a small grassy patch next to the leasing office. Duncan didn't see the rabbit lurking in the shadows near the newly tilled flower bed, but I did, so I stopped, whispered the word "Bunny," which always gets his attention and watched his head jerk back and forth as he looked for it. His nose twitched when he found it and his body immediately tensed. We stood there for five minutes, creeping slowly, almost imperceptibly forward. The light on the corner of the building blinked off, casting us in complete darkness, but as we waited it came slowly back on, building from nothing, growing in brightness as steadily and cautiously as our advancing steps. By the time it was full again, orange and as bright as the moon, we stood no more than seven feet from the crouching rabbit. It jerked and turned in our direction, its dark eyes and twitching nose zeroing in on our position. Duncan had hardly moved when it bolted right along the edge of the building, its shadow bouncing across the brick and stone. Duncan reared and was about pursue when the building alarm––a single high-pitched note that cut right through us with its shrill scream––sounded, shattering the quiet like nails on a chalkboard or the sound of breaking glass. I startled and winced as my heart pounded in my chest. Duncan backed off, forgetting the rabbit and turned to me for an answer. The alarm rang and rang, louder than the strip party in the next building, louder than anything the night allowed.

"C'mon, Roo," I said, pulling on his leash and ducking away, hurrying back home while visions of me spread-eagled up against as wall being frisked by a cop ran through my head. I even imagined the bachelorette party and vengeful little bunny looking on, a smirk on his pink face while I was cuffed and dragged away crying, "It was the rabbit! We didn't do anything! I've been framed!" The guy in the g-string, once again wearing his leprachaun hat and bow tie would nod smuggly, as though I were the strange one.

The Longest Mile

The Summer of '96 was the first I spent in Illinois. I'd gone home for Summer vacation each year I was enrolled at Lake Forest College but always managed to catch the tail end of it in August. My blissful and quiet months in Idaho somehow erased the memory of how truly oppressive August could be on the edge of Lake Michigan. I'd grown up in The West where the air is like dirt, dry and weightless, and wasn't accustomed to the heavy, moist stuff that passed as oxygen in the Mid-West where the nights were spent sweating into your sheets, which remained nice and wet for you all day, where envelopes sealed themselves, bags of cereal and potato chips grew soggy and sticky and hair, which had never shown the slightest bit of curl suddenly fro'd up in long, tight ringlets. About the only thing I enjoyed were the last of the fireflies, which my corner of Idaho, a desert, sadly lacked. They were like magic to me and I spent many a Lake Forest night outside on the edge of the ravine watching them, using my lighter and a burning cigarette to mimic their patterns and dances, drawing them close enough to see even when they weren't flirting. At that time of the summer most of their magic had already burned off, but for a few days I was able to witness more fireflies in two minutes than I'd seen my entire life in Pocatello. I had no idea that June and July brought swarms of millions and that every tree and bush would be aglow with more of them than there were people in my home town.

That first Summer I worked at Barnes and Noble in Vernon Hills. I'd been hired as a full-time temporary bookseller in September of '95 before the store had even opened. My job was to help set up the shelves, learn the cash registers, hang out through the Christmas Rush and then hope to God they wanted to keep me or find something else. I'd been there for less than a month before I was made a full-time, permanent employee and then Head Cashier two weeks after that. I spent many hours counting cash drawers, balancing the safe and supervising the cashiers, sometimes coming in early mornings to handle the deposit or staying late to close up and prepare the store for the next day. It was meaningless and low-paying work but I enjoyed it because, unlike my friends who'd gone straight into their careers, I didn't bring it home with me. I can't recall a single night of waking up in a sweat because I feared the store didn't have enough copies of Howard Stern's Private Parts or The Celestine Prophecy. I merely trudged home, got stoned with my roommates and went to bed.

Toward the end of July I finally made the decision and moved in with Ken, who lived in Round Lake, a little north and east of Vernon Hills, and a bit further out in the country. It was a long drive and even on late nights when I was the only person on the road it could take up to 45 minutes. The route I took was a winding one that followed the Metra tracks through several small towns, following the bank of an unhealthy little stream and skirting the edge of an enormous landfill, which was the longest and straightest part of the drive. It smelled horrible year round but was even worse during the Summer when all that garbage, a literal mountain of it, baked and simmered in the humidity.

It was Thursday night, the night my weekend began, and David and I had just finished closing the store. Ken had let me take his truck, a big Chevy S10 that stood taller and had more power than the tiny Nissan Sentra, Cleo, who'd seen me safely across the country countless times. I liked the truck because it was very unCurt-like and had a great sound system.

After leaving the store I drove down Butterfield Road until it turned into 83 and followed that toward the landfill. Despite the odor and the heat I loved driving at night with the windows down. I'd pull the tie from around my neck, loosen my collar or remove my shirt completely and just drive. A joyful and free drive. Fast because it was late and the road was all mine. I was young and in love, it had just sprinkled and the air seemed cooler, the night rich. I was on my way home where the weekend loomed ahead of me, full and promising so I popped in Poi Dog Pondering's self-titled first album, the one with the poetic songs, sexy and fun, and cranked up "Pulling Touch," my favorite song, hung my head out the window like a dog and sang into the night.

You are a butterfly and my eyes are needles
The cold has your breast and my hand is on fire
Are you resting and reposing
Oh my veins are pulsing
And nothing can cure me, but your pulling touch
I'll stretch you out, and lay alongside you
Run my hands along, devour and divide you.
In the cool of the night, under a rain-pelted roof
Beneath cotton white linen, our love is spilt
Are you the cup that I hold by the cheekbones,
I pull you close and I drink you up.
I'll stretch you out, and lay alongside you
Run my hands along, devour and divide you

I was doing sixty on a narrow, two-lane road as I neared the landfill and the stream. My foot was tapping, I was playing the drums on the steering wheel and just before I hit the first frog I remember thinking, "This moment could not be any more perfect." It wasn't until about the two hundredth frog that I thought, "What the hell?" and slammed on the brakes, turning off the stereo with a quick flick of my hand.

I am not the kind of person who kills things, even ants, without feeling a pang of guilt. I rescue bugs and put them outside, the only exception being that if they touch me and they're an arachnid I'm perfectly justified in executing them. Once my senior year I thought I hit a dog and spent an hour puking on the side of the road even though there was no body. My first summer back from Lake Forest I drove across the desert and hit a bird, which bounced off my hood, struck my windshield, did a somersault over the car and landed, still alive but not so happy about it, behind me. I have a respect for life, even those creatures that no one pays much attention to. Like the thousands of frogs that were caught in mid-migration on my sad and smelly little patch of Illinois 83.

I started to open the door to get out but upon looking down at the pavement reconsidered. I hit the high beams and as far as the eye could see, under that suddenly clear and brilliant night sky, the crickets louder than I'd ever heard them, the fireflies dancing and glowing all around me, I saw a country road covered in thousands, maybe tens of thousands of frogs, brown and green bumps, wet and silver under the stars, some hopping or climbing over the backs of their neighbors, some just sitting, chilling out, enjoying the night, almost all singing and chirping, content. Innocents. God's Creatures. Life. And me, in the big red truck, bearing down on them like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, or rather the 190 Horsepower Men of the Apocalypse.

I'd driven right into them without noticing. When I looked behind me I saw the field of frogs stretched far behind me and even as I watched thousands more mounted the side of the road and hopped onto the pavement, closing up whatever open, life-free patch of an escape route remained to me. There was no place to go without killing them. I sat there a long time, my heart racing, my favorite Poi Dog song long since forgotten, home and love calling to me, the weekend waiting to be claimed.

So I did what any person would do with love and sex dangling on a string in front of them, I sat back in my seat, took a deep breath, cranked up the stereo, put the truck in gear and went for it.

I was hoarse from all the screaming by the time I got home fifteen minutes later, still shaking, my fingers frozen and curled from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. As I climbed the front step, the porch light on and Ken waiting for me in the living room, I could feel the horrible bump of the road as the wheels of the truck ploughed over all those small bodies, a bump like driving over a cattle guard, only bigger and longer, as if the guard were a mile long. And squishy. And made popping noises as you passed over it. The only thing that made me feel better was Ken's smile, the way he hugged me after I told the story and, of course, the drink he fixed while I showered.

Tonight Duncan and I took the sidewalk. The snow has started to melt and the day was warm but windy–a cold wind from the north–so even as the snow softened and melted, the wind hardened and sharpened it, turning much of the park into a coarse field of brittle ice-razors. The geese had been out but even the places where their warm bodies had crushed the snow were still jagged and frozen. There was nothing pleasant to be had walking on the grass.

It was dark by the time I awoke from my nap. Duncan had been quite patient with me when I got home and a part of me felt guilty for not taking him out sooner so I let him lead me where he wanted. He was excited in that Duncan way of his, running back and forth across the sidewalk sniffing everything he could, seeing the park in a way I can only imagine. He pulled on his leash, dragging me after him, pulling me over patches of ice and eventually breaking into a run. I tromped behind, my boots thumping loudly, the air cold on my cheeks and scalp. It was like flying, racing, blind, down the sidewalk, smiling as I took big gulping breaths, trusting Duncan to keep me from falling. The few street lamps above us had wound down and blinked out and it was only when one finally buzzed back to life, illuminating the ground in a dark orange glow, I gasped and pulled hard on the leash to reign in my grinning dog.

We were standing in a long patch of sidewalk littered with fresh goose poop, both ahead of us and behind. The grass on my right was matted with the stuff, still dark green, still fresh and slimy. There was no place to go. Duncan started sniffing around and I had to pull the leash tight because sometimes if I'm not careful he'll slurp one up and chew on it. There was no time to think so I steeled my nerves, took a deep breath and spurred him on and ran screaming all the way down the sidewalk to the high school.

Frogs and geese and cement. The story of my life.

Sunday Sixty-Five

I'm not so good at breakfast. Don't get me wrong, I make some pretty good ones (just ask David, Kelly, Kevi and Mike, who've all had my dessert-like puff pancake with yogurt, fresh berries, peaches, bananas, apples with a single scoop of vanilla ice cream), I'm just not so great at taking the time to eat it regularly. That's why I make my own yogurt (Yo-Curt! Citrus Pumpkin is my newest flavor, although I'm pretty good at Honey Maple as well) and have started making breakfast pies, with eggs, bacon, pepper, onions, potatoes and smoked white cheddar cheese, all wrapped in a nice homemade bread dough. After they're done I toss them in the fridge so Ken and I can pop them in the microwave before heading out the door.

This is what I spend the majority of my Sundays doing, in addition to the grocery shopping and laundry. Today was a difficult day to spend inside. The temperatures rose to above 65° and the birds and sunshine were calling to me. As expected, Winnie, Pip and Olive did what cats do best by staking out their respective patches of sunshine in front of the various southern-facing windows. Because the morning was warm, I opened the patio doors and let Duncan lounge outside, where I joined him between various cooking sprees. Rather than listen to Dave Brubeck, I turned on the Magic Feather CD my friend Traci made me for my drive to Idaho last month. It was perfect for lounging around, lazily reading Tom Spanbauer and sipping Egyptian Licorice tea, scratching Duncan behind the ears and watching the chorus of little birds which had assembled to sing and hop from naked branch to naked branch in the tree just off the patio. Duncan was content to sprawl on his side and snore, only occasionally perking up long enough to watch a brown plastic bag he kept mistaking for a squirrel as it fluttered, caught in the bars of the fence.

Duncan, of course, couldn't care less what I was doing. He wanted only to walk or pick up the bits and chunks which accidentally slipped off the counter and fell onto the floor. He could hear the geese flocking up across the street in the park, so after what I'm sure seemed an eternity, we strolled out the front gates and walked down Leawood to the elementary school, where there weren't any geese, but horses, at which he got to stare confoundedly through the fences. The sound of dripping and running snow-melt was everywhere. It trickled and sparkled as it raced alongside us against the curb, pulling once-leaves and Pooh Sticks with it.

But the geese were calling from the park, where they'd gathered to enjoy the sunshine and warmth in the relative safety of the fenced-in baseball field. Duncan stalked along the chain links, his head low, keeping his eye on them as he herded them from the outfield to the infield. Once satisfied with their positioning he hurtled himself against the fence and without raising a bark, propelled the geese straight up into the air where they headed west toward the lake and the mountains.

Rewind (Part 3): Team Duncan

In the three years Duncan has been with us, we have only been apart five nights, three when I was in Atlanta when I first got sick, and the two he spent at Alameda East. Ken came home late that Saturday and we both went back to the hospital to take him for a walk and let him know we had not forgotten him. After an hour or so, sitting with him, cradling his tired head on my lap, talking with his doctor, Ken returned to Thornton and I spent the night laying awake in bed, Winnie curled on my hip, Pip rolled up in a ball on my chest, Olive on the pillow above my head. I was exhausted having spent much of the previous night standing in the cold watching my dog vomit into the bushes. I spent most of the night on my back watching the orange glow of the street lamps peek through the curtains and between the slats of the blinds. I missed the way he rolls over me as I climb under the covers, snorting and and rubbing his head against my arm. I missed his weight at my feet. He always stays with us until we fall asleep and then he jumps down and shuffles under the mattress where he snores softly. It was a long night and as warm and protective as the cats were, Duncan's absence weighed heavily on my mind.

Ken came home the next morning and we went to Alameda East once again. His condition hadn't changed and although subsequent x-rays had yet to determine what was happening in his stomach the doctor was still encouraging immediate surgery. Do it now! He could go septic at any moment! You don't have time to think! While figuring out what we could do I applied for a grant the hospital's board of directors offer, which is used to prevent economic euthanasia. They wouldn't meet until Monday morning, which could be too late but it was worth a try. Obviously we wanted the surgery but our finances were such that we couldn't afford it on our own which was the most horrible feeling in the world.

It was at that point that I went home and called everyone I knew and begged for money. It was not a pleasant experience and each time I made a new call I found myself sobbing all over again. Ken watched helplessly as I snotted over the phone, pacing back and forth and pulling my hair out, but by the end of the afternoon I'd finally raised the money we needed with the help of my mother, Ruth, Kelly, David and his mother, Cee Cee, and eventually my father. This generous group became known as Team Duncan and it's to them that Duncan, Ken and I owe every memory we've made together over the course of the past year.

I quickly called the hospital and gave them the go-ahead. "Do it now," I practically screamed. But this is where things became confusing. The doctor said no, she wanted to wait and see what would happen. The radiologist had looked at the x-rays and wasn't sure surgery was necessary at that point.

"But you've been telling us his intestinal wall could perforate at any moment, that he could go septic and that if that happens the only viable option would be to put him to sleep." I was near sobbing again.

But she held firm; she wanted to keep him on the fluids, keep monitoring his x-rays and hold off on surgery until they knew exactly what was going on. Reluctantly and with an enormous amount of fear we agreed. Ken decided we'd hold off and try to get him to our vets, Dr. Rogers and Dr. McCarty at Fire House. They knew Duncan, they knew us (Ken had worked for Dr. Rogers and we occasionally socialized with him) and we trusted them completely. Until then, all we could do was wait and hope nothing happened in the meantime.