Greeting

There is this perfectly wonderful (but in a creepy way) woman at work who greets me nearly every morning. Her office sits quite near the door I use to enter the building and try as I might I can't seem to sneak down the hallway without attracting her attention. She is exuberant, loud and cheerful, wears large bonnets that tie under her chin in the summer and is one of those people who always wakes up on the right side of the bed. I'm sure there's not a soul alive who could say anything negative about her, but to be honest she drives me crazy. Without fail she is standing at her door when I come in and she does this thing when she waves, a big, hearty single wave that involves the slow arc of her arm in front of her body, palm open and toward me, like a clown or one of those off-putting silent characters at Disneyland who are forbidden to speak. She mouths the words, "Good morning" and sort of stage whispers them, hissing loudly as I smile and pass in front of her. There are no classrooms at that end of the building and only a set of small bathrooms nearby, neither of which adhere to library rules of silence. Usually I simply smile and whisper back, but a few mornings ago, after years of being greeted this way I asked, loudly, "WHY ARE WE WHISPERING?" It caught her off guard and she shrugged and just as loudly answered, "I'm not sure." She's an odd bird.

This morning, another beautiful, clear and crisp morning, I entered the building still thinking of my early walk with Duncan. He'd loped through the grass, which is spotty in height, large and bushy in some areas, low and still yellow in others. He'd bent his head down and licked up the sweet dew which had gathered on the edges of the blades. His collar makes a pleasant and musical jangling sound and his tail swishes the grass as he walks. We'd bumped into Khan and Dave on their morning walk and the dogs ran up to each other, immediately made for the butts, sniffed long and hard, perhaps sharing what each had had for dinner the previous night, then moved on to their bellies and under-junk and then, as if on cue, both leapt up, batted at each other, embracing in a kind of paws-askew hug and began wrestling. It seemed a glorious kind of greeting and when Carol clown-waved and hissed at me I couldn't help but think she'd gotten it all wrong.

I am not advocating butt-sniffing or playfully violent brawls but you can't deny it's much more passionate than the often silent hello's and Hi's, or the tight, close-lipped lazy smiles we exchange as we pass one another on the lake trail, at the office, in the parking lot or at the grocery store.

I watched Duncan and Kona tonight at The Glen. It had only been a few days since they'd last seen each other but once Melissa and I led them down to the grassy, tree-lined depression on the side of the complex, they went at each other with such force and excitement you'd have thought it had been years since their last get-together. They ran wide circles around us, chasing and snorting before coming together nose to butt, then nose to belly, before they started up a fierce and slobbery wrestling match. It was obvious they are friends, and heart-warming to see such energy and affection at their greeting.
Carol has much to learn. We all do. Perhaps one morning I'll shock her with a big, loud "GOOD MORNING," and a dance of excitement, although I certainly won't be putting my nose anywhere near her butt.

One of the Pack

Duncan is more than just my friend and mentor, he's also my dog. There is magic in the places he leads me and the things he shares with me––the simplicity and details of the world––but there is beauty in just watching him be a dog, doing the things dogs do.

Today we ventured back down to Wynetka Ponds where we met Melissa and Kona and five or six other dogs. I've always been a little nervous about dog parks. Our first experiences at the one in Stapleton were often frustrating and occasionally fearful. Maddie, Denise's dog, was attacked and injured several times so Duncan and I stopped visiting but walked the greenway in front of the park quite often. Our two trips to The Ponds, the park the community purchased to spare us more condos, have been quite different experiences. Today, while the dogs––Kona, two Jack Russells, a Collie, a Boxer, and two sort of mutty hunting dogs––played, I stood back with the grown-ups and simply watched. Duncan was beautiful beyond words, his red coat shining in the last of the afternoon sun. He romped and chased without fear, only occasionally returning to me, almost as if to check and make sure I was okay without him, before returning to the pack. He flaunted as he played, holding his tail and head high as he chased after whichever dog carried the lone tennis ball in its mouth, keeping quiet as most of the others barked and snapped playfully at each other. Someone once told me they imagined Golden Retrievers as laid-back surfer dudes, mellow, perhaps stoned, and willing to go along with anything. That comparison never quite seemed right to me. Today, though, I saw Duncan for what his breed really is: everyone's most trusted and reliable best friend, brave, smart, courteous, the one girls fall for and guys want to be, trustworthy and kind in everything he does. A perfect gentleman.

But he's not everyone's best friend. He's mine. And I'm his, and together we're just about as perfect as friends can be.

Ghost Games

Some days are too good to end, the air too warm, bleeding into the night. We walked this morning, we walked this afternoon, and after a long play with Khan down at The Glen, we ventured to the park and back. But even being home and tired isn't enough so we've found ourselves sitting on the patio, sipping Chamomile tea and breathing in the April air.

Warm weather brings phantoms. From my patio I can hear them playing in the park––echoes of laughter from the darkness––and if I squint I can even see them, thin shadows running back and forth across the fields. Bowles is mostly deserted this time of night with only a few cars crossing every couple of minutes but the voices are continuous, heedless of the hour. Duncan leans through the patio into the sound, his ears rising as the night catches and plays phantom calls. He cocks his head when he sees them, stick shapes chasing back and forth between the trees on the wide expanse of grass we walk every day. We listen and watch, and sometimes we can see a flash of green––although sometimes it is red, dull and not very bright, little more than a dim slice of movement––or even bright yellow. The voices rise up and the shadows run again, the sound of their quick steps an imagined stampede we almost think we can feel trembling the earth at our feet. They always make me smile and I wonder, if I came from another time, what would I think of the glow-in-the-dark Ultimate Frisbee game that has taken over the park, the nearly formless shapes of the players, ghosts under the orange street lamps, crossing back and forth calling out to one another, laughing as they move? I remember days that don't seem all that long ago when late still seemed early, when my night started as the nights of most people wound down. Duncan watches the glowing disc and wants to chase it, grip it in his jaws and carry it away, his head and tail high. I merely want to remember what it was like to run and play without thought.

Spring is the time when the world––our half of it, at least––comes back to life. But every Spring I find myself remembering Springs of old when I didn't feel quite so tired or my obligations seemed nearly as heavy. It would be nice to forget tomorrow and run across the street and join those shadows in play, if only to remind myself that I am not a shadow but still very much muscle and bone and breath.
April is a good time to play. I think we'll do that tomorrow.

The Ponds: A Community Saves the Day

It was a great day to be a Duncan, or at the least a Duncan who lives with me. Not only did the patient pup get a nice long walk in the park, complete with ball throwing and squirrel chasing, but we ventured down the street to a brand new dog park on the corner of Bowles and Platte Canyon. Melissa had mentioned it last week, and I'd even suggested it to some new neighbors who were looking for some place wide and open to take their Boxer, Khan (not sure of the spelling, although I like to imagine they were thinking of the Star Trek character, although they may be too young). This afternoon Duncan and I leashed up and, because it was chilly and windy even though the morning's snow had melted off, drove down the street in search of the grand and glorious park known as Wynetka Ponds.

We found it easily enough and bumped into a woman whose Golden, Raleigh, we'd met a few months back on a cold December morning in the park. I mentioned that this was our first trip to The Ponds and she explained that the vast hillside with its rolling brook and occasional copse of elms and pines had been slated for condominium development. I sighed remembering the northern Chicago suburbs where Ken and I had lived before coming to Denver. Much of the farm country there had been transformed into housing developments in the three short years I lived in Round Lake Beach and I've heard from others since that what little remained has also been swallowed up. The woman went on to explain that she lived in the development across the street and the entire community was up in arms over the impending arrival of the condos so they raised the funds, bought the land and sold it to the City of Littleton on the condition that it be turned into a park and that a sizable chunk of it be dog friendly.

It was an amazing thing for a group of people to do, especially in this day and age (there, I've become my grandfather! I actually used the phrase, "In this day and age!") when people will do almost anything to get ahead. It was a community in action and I know that every time I'm at that park I will silently thank them and hope the universe looks after them for the kindness and generosity.

Duncan was quite a hit at The Ponds, where six little Toto dogs nipped and chased after him while their owners (such an ugly word for a dog companion. Someone PLEASE help me find a better term! Post your suggestions as comments!), two little girls, ran with him, grabbed his head and hugged him, threw the ball for him and wouldn't give him a moment's rest. He wouldn't listen to a word they said, not coming, not dropping, not shaking or giving them five, but bless them for loving him so much and trying so hard. He smiled and played, galloped and cavorted, and I loved every minute of watching him. After a week of not getting it his way, it was wonderful to see him in action again.

And when it was done, after he'd been served his dinner and the sun began its descent in the western sky, I took him across the street to the park where we tossed the ball and rolled on the grass, just the two of us. He smiled and danced for me and once again, as every day, reminded me how lucky I am he is in my life.

Double-Dipped

My car smells terribly of wet dog. It's a long ride from Stapleton to home and I think even Duncan was disgusted with his wet-dog scent by the time we arrived. Once home I made a bee-line for the tub, which I turned on and then went out looking for Duncan's big fluffy white towels and his shampoo. When I returned to the bathroom he'd already climbed inside and was waiting patiently for me to finish the job.It wasn't as fun as chasing geese around the pool with Maddie, but he smells nice now and has spent most of the night curled up asleep.

Firsts and Lasts

Duncan has never been a water dog. He simply does not enjoy it. He tolerates the occasional bath and has even voluntarily climbed into the tub to let me rinse the ice-balls from between his paws after a long, snowy walk in the park, but the whole notion of water has always made him nervous. I've watched him pace anxiously along the shore of many a pond, whining at the geese and ducks just out of range, and he's even taken a tepid step or two in, but inevitably reconsiders and turns his red back on the entire affair. Lately I've been thinking that with Spring coming on it would be a good time to give him a bath and good combing, especially since Kevi, Mike and The Boys will be spending the next two days with us. I haven't exactly been dreading it, but I have been plotting and planning how the whole thing will go down.

Duncan and I celebrated Chocolate Bunny Day by joining Kevi and her family at Rene and Donnie's for brunch and afterward I decided to take Dunc to visit Denise, our former neighbor at Stapleton. Denise is a good egg and I love her with all my heart. She was a true friend throughout my initial anxiety attacks and was one of the few people I've met since moving to Denver who I felt completely comfortable around. There is no pretense with her, which is a welcome change after years of working retail, which is nothing but pretense. Sadly, though, Denise and Martin, her husband, are moving to Missoula, taking their daughter Avery and, most importantly, Duncan's best friend, their Black Lab, Madi. I wanted to give them a chance to say their farewells, play hard and snarl at Hufflepuff, an unfortunately-named white and fluffy foo-foo dog who lives next door to Denise and Martin. Denise had other plans and we ended up going on a long walk through Stapleton, down Westerly Creek to the big pond at Central Park.

Madi, unlike Duncan, is very much a water dog. I can't tell you the number of walks I shared with Denise that ended up with Madi bounding into a pond to chase the ducks or the Killdeer which scurry around the bank or play the old Broken Wing game. Madi is enthusiastic about everything, especially water (as well as finding a way to plant her paws firmly against my testicles just about every time I see her). As we approached the big pool there was no question as to where Madi would land, but I did not expect what ended up happening. After watching Madi dive in and climb out half a dozen times, Duncan stepped up to the edge, kind of leaned forward and dove in after her.

Denise and I cheered and I found myself clapping ecstatically, my heart welling up with pride. In three and a half years I'd never once seen my dog swim. I was a bit nervous and was fully prepared to dive in after him should the situation call for it, but he was fine on his own. In and out, over and over, and although he never quite mastered the devil-may-care force of Madi's leaps, he dove nonetheless. And to add to my pride, he even followed a small gaggle of geese around the perimeter of the pool, paddling furiously to keep up, his nose and eyes the only parts of him I could see. It made me want to dance.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended. We made the long walk back to Denise's house where I said my farewells to Martin and Avery, hugging Denise while Duncan and Maddie chased each other around the yard one last time. They are good people and although I haven't seen them as often as I'd like, Denver will seem a little emptier without them. I know Duncan will miss Madi but neither of us will forget his first swim with her paddling at his side, a friendship only dogs know.

Buried Treasure

Our warm weather seems to have come to an end. Even though it was 50° at 7 AM, the temperatures cooled throughout the day and even as I type this the wind has picked up, dusts of snow are blowing across the orange street lamps and my bones have started to ache.

Much of the snow has melted, revealing all sorts of hidden gems that have been concealed beneath it for the past month. Our walk down to The Glen this evening revealed plenty of goodies which almost make me wish I had to don my big boots and trudge through powder all over again.

First of all, there are the turds. All sorts of turds. Most of them frozen but still colorful. There are the numerous huge diarrhetic pies Cyrus deposited back in November which Tom, his owner, refused to clean up because they were too massive and moist. Then there are the little curly blacks one I imagine were left behind by some small, rat-like lap dog which yips, not barks, in High C. There are the old ones, now yellow and crumbling which, when combined with the fresh ones from the Yellow Lab in the next building, form a minefield which is almost impossible to navigate.

In addition to the plethora of crap littering the back lawn, Duncan and I discovered an empty can of Arizona iced-tea, an unopened fun-size bag of Cheetos, several bleached and empty packs of Orbit gum, a white plastic coat hanger, a USB cord, a brown leather glove, three King Soopers grocery bags still connected, a rotting baseball, a mouldy tennis ball, a roll of twine, an empty matchbox, something I can only assume was once a banana, a string tied around three sad, deflated balloons (two red and a yellow, which I assume are left over from Summerset last September) and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles mask someone quite small must've misplaced last October.

I didn't realize I lived in a dumpster, but the melt has shown me the error of assuming I didn't.

The Kid

So there was this kid. This little Hispanic kid, maybe sixteen, with a sickly, see-through mustache and Princess Leia buns on his head. Or rather that's what they looked like. It was hard to tell with the black hoodie he wore pulled up around his face. Maybe his hair was pushed forward by the hood, or maybe Cruller Chic is the new look. I don't know and who am I to judge, really? All I know is that he looked like a masculine Princess Leia and he wore a hoodie. And he wouldn't stop talking to me or following us on our walk. Duncan and I had spent some time playing in the snow on the field and as we rounded the baseball fields this Star Wars cantina-looking kid comes out of no where and starts making conversation like we've known each other for years. "Is this Columbine?" he asked, gesturing wildly around the park. I nodded and pointed toward the high school. "Yeah, right over there," I told him. "All this?" he asked, his eyes wider than a Womp Rat at Toshi's Power Station. "No, just that," I pointed again without breaking my stride. Duncan had places to go, geese to chase. "Yeah, I start here in a couple of days," he said, plunking his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie. I smiled, the kind of smile that says, "That's nice. Now go away." I'm not an unfriendly chap, not at all. Just the other day we made friends (again) with Simon and Penny, the two Basset Hounds, and their people, Tom and Sharon, who suffered a stroke while walking her dogs right before Christmas. We'd chatted for nearly an hour, about all sorts of things, like Yellowstone Park, strokes, places to walk dogs, strokes. I like talking to other dog walkers, but this kid had no dog. And it was cold. So I kept walking and he kept following and it was only when he said, "So you go here, right?" Here meaning Columbine. "What grade you in?"

That was when my heart opened up and I no longer cared that he looked like Carrie Fisher with a five o'clock shadow. That's when he became my new best friend.

What grade am I in? It was like 1988 all over again.

Simplicity Blessing

There are nights when the sky is so open and the stars so clear that no words can describe them. Duncan and I played on the packed snow with our friend Erik and his two dogs, Otis and Gracie, and even though I had fun sliding down the hill on my belly, my arms out wide beside me, the air cold on my knees and around my ankles, the dogs clambering all around me, trying to drown me between their warm bodies and the snow , I could not stop looking skyward and thinking silent thoughts of thanks that I was given the chance to be outside and part of the pack. There are no words to describe the feel of twelve tiny and some not so tiny feet pawing at your back as Mars rises above you and three feather-shaped clouds waft slowly across the eastern sky. An ordinary night made magical by friendship and heavenly light. We are blessed by the simplicity we so often overlook.