A High-Five Can Make All the Difference

I have not had a good day. In fact, it's been downright unpleasant. So I did what comes naturally at such times: I pouted and took a nice long nap, but upon waking discovered that the day was just as crappy as it had been before I laid down. I snacked and cleaned and did laundry, listening to music loudly––almost obnoxiously so––but nothing seemed to make me feel better. The only things keeping my sane today were Ken's patience and general good nature, and Duncan's unconditional love, the way he rests his chin on my foot even during my ugliest moods.

So I decided to take him to Hero's in the hopes that his excitement and joy would rub off on me. From the moment we walked in the door we were greeted by happy, smiling faces, and people who love Dunc almost as much as I do. They tossed cookies and treats at him, rubbed his belly, went through his entire repertoire of tricks, gave me big hugs and a shoulder rub, and a whole bag of free kitty food. In short, they did nothing out of the ordinary, because they always make us feel good when we go there.

It wasn't until a little boy and his nanny walked in, though, that I felt my mood begin to lighten. Dunc normally runs around the store off-leash, greeting each customer at the door when they enter, merrily following them around in the hopes of earning another treat, smiling and wagging his tail in that way that I love so much. He did the same for the new customers until the nanny informed us that her companion, small and blond and no more than four years old, was afraid of large dogs and was a bit nervous by Duncan's attention. So I set Roo down in front of him, asked him to give me a high-five and then ten––two of his favorite tricks––and then asked the boy if he wanted to give Roo a high-five. I handed him a treat, a big, fat, golden pumpkin cruncher, and taught him how to give the command. Dunc waited patiently until the boy stepped forward and bravely held up his hand. Dunc immediately gave him a nice, gentle high-five, then leaned in close, licked him sloppily on the face and took the treat when it was offered. The boy giggled and clapped and threw his arms around Dunc in a brief hug.

It was at that moment that my foul mood broke and the world seemed a pleasant place once again. Dunc came to me, nuzzled his head against my leg like Pip and Olive do when they're hungry and have decided I'm late delivering their dinner, and thumped his tail against the floor. I scritched his ears and thanked him, and the smile on his face seemed to say, "See, I'm still here. I've got your back. Always."

Bless my dog, my amazing, wonderful best friend.

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: Duncan's Commercial Promos for Hero's Pets Part 1

Last Summer Chelsea at Hero's Pets asked if Duncan and I wanted to make more commercials for her store. Two months later the results are finally in. Unfortunately I can't post all three spots in a single post so there are two more following this.

Duncan and I make only the briefest of appearances in this first commercial so be sure to watch the other two.

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: Duncan's Commercial Promos for Hero's Pets Part 2

Here's the second promo Duncan and I did for Hero's Pets last summer. We play a much bigger part in this one but be sure to watch all three. And be sure to let the good people at Hero's (my friends) know how great you think they are!

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: Duncan's Commercial Promos for Hero's Pets Part 3

Here's the longest of the three promos Duncan and I filmed for Hero's Pets last summer.

Be sure to visit their website, stop by if you're in the area, or give them a call to let them know what you think. Hero's is Dunc's favorite place in the world. Make it yours, too.

The Right Thing

Hero's Pets has been to Duncan what I imagine Santa's workshop at the North Pole would be to children. It is a place where he is greeted by a chorus of cheers and whistles from all the good people who work there. They love him as much as he loves being among them and when they see him he is rewarded with more treats than any belly should be able to hold, and pats and scritches and a reprieve from following the rules he has at home, like jumping up on counters and sniffing out goodies or barking so loud the windows rattle. For the most part I have allowed it, pleased that he has found a place he loves so much and where his love is returned so generously and whole-heartedly.

Two night ago, though, things got a little out of control. I took him in to pick up a treat (a nice ostrich tendon, which he loves more than bully sticks and pumpkin crunchers) and Rhetta––his favorite person there, who lives with five Goldens of her own, is a trainer and a behaviorist––decided she wanted to trim up his feet, tail and ears. She's an amazing person with an enormous heart, kind and generous and a fanatic when it comes to Goldens. She squeals at Dunc each time we enter, tosses him handfuls of treats, and loves on him like no one else, not even his grandma. And after a lengthy and restless trimming, which didn't contain nearly as many rewards as Dunc preferred, Rhetta gave him some goodies, which he readily snapped up. Unfortunately he also accidentally snapped up a portion of her finger. Rhetta squealed and jerked back, Duncan recoiled and cowered and I was mortified to witness the blood begin to ooze up from the finger where his teeth had found a nice, juicy spot. It wasn't a deep puncture but the blood kept coming and coming and I was embarrassed. Duncan has never bitten anyone, has certainly never drawn blood, and has always been the kind of dog I trust with the smallest of children and the newest of strangers. He is not a biter.

Rhetta was very kind and understanding and insisted that the fault was hers, that he was excited after a long period of doing something he didn't particularly enjoy, and that she simply hadn't pulled her finger away fast enough. I apologized more times than I could count but Rhetta insisted everything was fine. Roo and I left, humbled and quiet, my head hung low, his tail between his legs.

So tonight when I had to go pick up an order I'd placed I took Duncan but insisted that things were going to be different. I kept him on his leash, which I rarely do there, and told everyone that he was not allowed any treats. It was not that he was being punished for biting our friend, it was that I wanted him to learn some restraint when we visited Hero's. No one seemed happy about my decision, especially Rhetta, who asked me several times if I was sure I didn't want her to give him a treat. Duncan sat at my feet looking up at me expectantly, his eyes wide and puppy-ish, his tail occasionally swishing hopefully back and forth, but I did not relent. We left and as soon as I pulled out of the parking lot I felt like the worst papa in the world. Duncan was quiet on the ride home, quiet as we climbed the stairs, and went straight to his room (the canvas kennel in the corner next to our bed) where he could sulk in solitude (he takes after me in this regard).

I felt awful because I have spent so much time learning how to live in the moment, from the greatest teacher of them all, my best friend Duncan. He knows Hero's as a place of tremendous joy and excitement where he is treated, well... like a hero. And tonight I robbed him of that feeling. So I called the store and asked Rhetta if I'd done the right thing in trying to teach him restraint.

"Hon," she said. "Duncan loves coming here and it's okay if he has a place where he can break the rules every now and then. That's what makes it so magical for him. This is a place of profound joy. Why would you want to corral his joy? He lives in the moment. Let him have his moment."

And so I did what needed to be done. We hadn't been home five minutes before I put his leash back on him, loaded him into the car and raced back to the store before they closed. As soon as I opened the door Rhetta greeted us, squealed loudly at Duncan and set his tail to swinging and his feet to dancing. She threw her arms around me and said, "I was hoping you'd come back. I'm so proud of you. You did the right thing!" And then she lavished so much love and affection on Roo that the building practically shook with their joy. They danced and barked, ran back and forth while Rhetta tossed treats at him, opened up a bag of frozen raw meat and gave a big chunk to him, slipped him an enormous oatmeal cookie and even treated him to a big, juicy buffalo bone with blood and squishy bits insides. She loves him and he loves her and I love their love for each other.

And tonight, with Duncan nibbling on his buffalo bone at my feet, his tail wagging happily, a smile on his face, I know I did the right thing. I will never corral his joy again.

All for Our Hero

Duncan and I helped out our good friend Chelsea at Hero's Pets last month with an promotional spot produced by KUSA, the local NBC affiliate here in Denver. Here's the final product.

Enjoy! And if you're in the area or contact Hero's over the phone or via email please tell them Duncan and Curt sent you.

It's Lovely Up Here!

"Life down a hole takes an awful toll,
What with not a soul there to share with
Hurry––it’s lovely up here!"

("Hurry, It's Lovely Up Here!" Alan Jay Lerner)

It's National Coming Out Day and after Duncan and I strolled around the lake, where a cool breeze was stirring the aspens and elms along its shore, we stopped by Hero's Pets to pick up some treats and to say hello to Chelsea and the gang. As Duncan sniffed along the lower shelves of The Wall of Horror (where Chelsea displays the bully sticks, the tracheas, shark spines and other grizzly goodies) Chelsea handed me something she'd ordered just for me, even though I hadn't asked her to do so. It was a car magnet with a single dog print on it. I've never been one to display things on my car, except for the rainbow dog tags which hang from my rear view mirror, but this was too good to pass up so I took it and stuck it on my car the minute we got home.

I am fortunate because my coming out story was an easy one. My friends and family were supportive and welcoming to Ken.  Coming out is a process, something that never really ends. It was not an easy thing to do but over the years it became something I could do with little thought. It is as much a part of me as the color of my hair, the blue of my eyes or the color of my skin. It is not my sole identity but an aspect of it. I am just as much a son, a brother, a partner, a writer, a friend, and a dog lover.

The other day on Facebook I posted the following photo:

As Ken and I walk with Duncan it often crosses my mind that perhaps he is more evolved than the species with which he has chosen to spend his life. He loves us completely and without conditions, does not mind that we hold hands or are working on spending our lives together as partners. He sees only love.

Now if only the rest of us could follow his example.

Grrroomed, Again

It has been three years since I've had Duncan professionally groomed. It's not that he hasn't had a ton of baths and good brushings since then, or even the occasional trim around the tail feathers, feet and ears, it's that his papa is cheap and lazy and didn't want to drive all the way across Denver to see Diane, the groomer who worked with him last time. I've managed myself, alternating between our tub and the ones at Wag n' Wash––which has had its share of adventure––just up the street, but I figured it was high time we got him cleaned up, especially because we'll be leaving for Idaho on Wednesday morning and Dunc needs to look extra cute for Grandma. Unfortunately Diane's schedule was full and we couldn't get him in to see her, so I called Chelsea at Hero's Pets to see who in the area she recommended. She praised It's a Dog's Life, which is right up the street, so yesterday morning, after a nice long walk and plenty of rolling in the wet grass trimmings at the park––one last opportunity to get nice and grungy––we headed over there to get the deed done. Knowing there would be plenty of treats involved and an opportunity to show off his rugged good looks, Dunc was more than happy to hurry down the stairs to the car and head out.

They were very kind and patient when I explained that there is almost nothing he hates more than the roar of the big driers and the best way to calm him is with the big fat bag of Coconut Cruncher banana treats and Gus's Green Bean treats I brought along just in case. They insisted they'd never had a problem with the driers but humored me and took them anyway. I gave him one last scritch behind his ear, kissed his nose and watched them lead him back into the grooming room. He paused in the door, looked over shoulder at me with an uncertain raise of his eyebrows and vanished inside. A moment later as the door closed behind him the relative quiet of the reception area was shattered with his loud wails and one or two plaintive barks. "Yeah, I think you'll need those treats," I told them as I hurried out the door.

 

I spent the next two hours getting the car detailed, figuring that if Duncan  deserved to be shiny and clean for the trip the car did, too. It took them forever to get rid of all the red hair that had collected in the backseat from Duncan's travel there but eventually they handed me the keys and I climbed inside. I hurried home to wash the blanket I keep back there for Dunc to sit on and then Ken and I got the call that it was time to pick him up. They led him out, bright and clean, a big wide wag on his tail and a matching smile on his face, a blue bow secured around his collar, the bag of treats nearly empty when they handed it to me.

"Got some use out of those, did you?" I asked with a smile.

And so he came home, happy and thirsty, smelling clean, his coat soft and smooth, ready for the long drive to Idaho and his grandma waiting there for him with treats and hugs and lots of love.

The Mission

This afternoon, when the temperatures had risen until it felt as though there was nowhere left for them to rise, when the grass seemed suddenly brittle and flat, with a thin layer of burnt yellow beneath it where there had been dark, wet earth only yesterday, when the sun had reached its zenith and even the shadows had taken refuge to whatever sleepy place it is they go, Duncan decided he needed to walk. He'd tired out early this morning when the sun was still low but hot, choosing instead to roll in the shaded grass beneath the elms. I wondered at his decision but he was insistent and I could tell there was someplace he needed to be.

He led me across the park, pulling me behind him in the same way he has pulled on frigid, white winter days when he has somehow figured out there is a ball buried in a drift waiting for him. I trust him on these missions and so I followed, the leash between us taught, barely bouncing with each step we took. His path was straight and determined, unwavering and without pause. Nothing interrupted his focus: not the squirrel sitting at the base of a tree we passed, nor the big yellow butterfly that danced just above his head for a moment, not even my occasional pleas for him to slow down. He led me to the lake, disinterested in the other walkers and their dogs, or the small children who stumbled over their own feet and called, "Goggy! Goggy!" as they held out their awkward, splayed fingers for him, fingers he usually loves to lick for an stray residue that might be concealed there.

And then we were there, at the cool, shaded spot behind Hero's Pets where the honey locusts grow over the wide cement steps and the bench mounted there that looks out over the lake trail and the mountains. Two people were sitting close together, each holding a cup of build-your-own yogurt from Nella's, the mom and pop place that opened earlier this summer. Duncan sat down not far from them and simply watched, finally yipping softly and wagging his tail until the woman turned and noticed us. Her face immediately lit up as she set her cup down behind her.

"Hi, boy," she cried. "Oh, he's beautiful! Can I pet him?"

Duncan was up and rushing to her before I could respond. I nearly lost my grip on his leash and staggered after him.

"He's so dark," she said, running her hand across his back, entwining her fingers in the curls that beckon to be played with. Duncan leaned up against her, tail flapping madly, a whine in his throat. He shuffled back and forth between the two of us, turning this way and that, putting on His Best Cute, licking her hand, then spinning around and gently slapping her with his shaggy tail. She cooed at him while her grinning boyfriend looked on. "I love Goldens," she said. "They're the best dog. So loyal and so smart."

And that's when I noticed his face buried in her cup, his pink tongue hurriedly lapping up her French vanilla yogurt and the bananas and strawberries she's topped it with.

"Duncan," I cried and tugged on the leash. His tongue held firm, though, and the cup stayed in place long enough for him to lap up at the last of its contents, gulping down a strawberry, red juice and vanilla foam clinging to his chin like water on a tall, icy glass.

I don't know how he knew she would be there and that she'd be such a sucker for him, but he did. Mission: Accomplished.

Thunder

I understand anxiety. I have been learning its language for the past six years, from its obvious, boisterous shouting to its more subtle nuances, all its I-before-E-except-after-C's. I am intimately acquainted with its peaks and valleys, its quiet tiffs and its full-blown temper tantrums. I know it as well as I know myself, but for all I do know, I do not know how to explain that to Duncan, who has suffered it tremendously the past few days.

In addition to the insane weeks-long revelry that has become July 4th, he has had to endure an endless stream of afternoon and evening thunderstorms, the kind that shake the house, rattle the windows shamelessly and knock things off shelves like an annoyed poltergeist. I have watched his body tremble uncontrollably, to the point of exhaustion, while his eyes remain wide and white like a fish caught on a line, alert and fearful. And there has been almost nothing I can do or say to soothe him.

I have learned little tricks, like running all the fans, the dishwasher, the air conditioner and the vent in the bathroom as well as the one above the stove. I have turned the stereo up to insane levels and attempted to distract him by taking out all of his toys and squeaking them. Ken and I have walked him miles around the parking lot, we have pulled him into bed and cuddled with him tightly, have given him herbal drops and treats. I have found him curled up in his kennel under his quilt, his face buried in the pillow, and have crawled into the tub with him, where he lays and pants loudly when the storm rattles the ceiling and sends even the cats scurrying for cover. We have done everything we could think of, even letting him crouch in the laundry room, packed between the washer and drier, the garbage can and the big bag of recyclables, the sketch of Winnie the Pooh and a bumble bee hanging benevolently on the wall above him.

And then there was the Thunder Shirt. After spending hours researching and applying treatment methods for him, including the absurd notion of rubbing him down with organic drier sheets, I finally settled on the Thunder Shirt. During a particularly nasty storm on Saturday we raced to Hero's Pets, where Chelsea was waiting for us with one already out of the package and ready to go.

The premise is rather simple: you put the shirt on and Velcro it around your dog, making sure it fits tightly, like a too small t-shirt. The pressure offered by the shirt soothes the nervous system and alleviates anxiety. I was skeptical but as soon as Chelsea had him securely fitted, his entire demeanor changed. The panting ceased, the nervous pacing stopped entirely and he was able to lay down and relax. I took him home and watched, astounded, as he napped away the remainder of the storm. And in the days that followed, as each new line of thunderheads piled up over the lush, stony peaks to the north and west of us, it took little to no convincing to get him to wear it. We simply offered him a treat and watched as he laid down calmly at our feet or retired to the cool linoleum in the bathroom for peace and quiet.

It is not a perfect thing. I will admit that Monday's firework celebrations all around us were a trial. While the cats slept peacefully on the bed, Duncan paced and whined and refused to stay far from me, but he did not shake and tremble. Friday's celebration was a nightmare and Monday was difficult, but his fear of thunder has been greatly reduced and I have taken great comfort in knowing I have done everything I can to help his anxiety as much as he helped mine. And watching him sleep calms my spirit more than I could ever explain.

I can only hope to be half the friend he has been to me. It is the least I can do.

Panic

It came suddenly, the storm that rocked our neighborhood this morning, shaking the apartment and igniting the sky south and east of us with tall lightning that razored the dark morning with brilliant streaks like outstretched fingers. It was not the kind of storm I remember from my days in The Shire-like Midwest, and it wasn't even the worst I've experienced here, but it was enough to make me nervous. Pip scrambled under the couch to take comfort with his gang of dust bunnies while Winnie hunkered down deep among the pillows on the bed. Olive was hardly fazed and slept through it in the center of the floor throughout the entire thing. Duncan, however, did not do well at all.

He began whining long before I heard even the first distant rumbles––little more than the sound of heavy trucks on Bowles––but by the time it arrived he was pacing and panting and trying to climb into my lap. I moved my computer to the couch so he could crawl up next to me and take comfort by leaning his full weight against my body, but even that wasn't good enough. He wanted to crawl onto me, maybe even push himself all the way through me.

I am no stranger to anxiety. I have been well-acquainted with the terror it brings since the Spring of 2005 when it changed my entire life. I remember driving to work and feeling the horrible flush of adrenaline course through my body, grabbing me by the knees first, then moving upward, flooding my joints and muscles, terrorizing my stomach and bowels, finally grabbing me by the brain and shaking me until it was all I could do to keep from passing out. That Spring was the worst of my life because we did not know what the problem was, but even now that we know and I have been trained to manage it, behind the safety of therapy and prescriptions, it occasionally has its way with me. Duncan was there with me through the worst of it, still only a puppy, less than a year old, but courageous and wise enough for the two of us.

Pressed against me as he was this morning I could feel his heart racing and every muscle of his tight little body quivering. He big, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth and desperation ignited his eyes. I kept hugging him, pressing my lips to his cheeks and brows, whispering soft words of encouragement and comfort. It was the least I could do after the days he laid with me, leaned against and supported me when I was so dizzy I couldn't walk to the bathroom, or the time he stood on my chest, stared straight into my eyes and matched his breathing to my own until he eventually calmed me down.

When I finally had to climb into the shower (something I rarely do because of my not-entirely irrational fear of being electrocuted while bathing) Duncan followed me to the tub. My voice was not enough, nor my constant conversation with him. I showered as quickly as possible while he continually tried to climb in next to me, peeking around the curtain and sliding it away, lifting his paws onto the edge in an attempt to pull himself in.

I know that fear and know there is little reassurance anyone can offer. Ken was with me during many of my attacks and tried his hardest to comfort and calm me, and while I knew I was not going to die, I wasn't entirely convinced of it. There was little I could do for Duncan except hold him and offer him two droppers of Animal Apawthecary Tranquility Blend herbal tincture which Chelsea at Hero's Pets had recommended for our long road trips to Idaho. It's foul smelling stuff, brown and syrupy, and I don't even want to imagine what it tastes like (we always wash it down with a nice treat afterward) but it does the trick. Duncan soon found a cool spot on the linoleum in the kitchen and relaxed.

I left shortly after that for a meeting and when I returned home two hours later he was fast asleep next to Ken on the couch. I understand the exhaustion that follows such episodes of anxiety, so I curled up next to him, around him, whispered in his ear, held his paw and took a brief nap alongside him, matching my breathing to his.

It was a tough morning for Roo and although I felt helpless to ease his fears I know I did all I could, which was not half of what he has done for me. We give each other what we can when we need it and that is why we are best friends.

A Safe Spot

When Duncan was young and we'd just built our house we kenneled him. Those first few nights were rough, perhaps more so on Ken and me, but we all eventually transitioned to it nicely. I come from the school of thought that a kennel should be a safe haven for a dog, a cave for them to retreat to when they're anxious or frightened, and should never be used as a punishment. Duncan had a great kennel, with lots of big pillows and his Winnie-the-Pooh and even when he got older and we left the door open at night, he chose to sleep there. It was all his. No cats or humans allowed.

After we sold the house and moved into a much smaller apartment we didn't have room for the kennel so we put it in storage, until I eventually gave it to my former boss, whose family adopted a Golden puppy. Duncan, though, still craved a special spot of his own and chose, instead, to sleep under the bed, which was fine, except when he'd climb out in the middle of the night, bumping his head, rattling the box spring and making all sorts of noise. He was fine with that arrangement until last year when I got a new bed with a much lower clearance, effectively cutting him off from his safe spot. I hoped he'd adjust and invited him to share the topside of the bed with me, but that didn't solve our problems.

Every time it thundered, or a loud truck would drive through the parking lot, and especially around the Fourth of July, Duncan was miserable. He had no place to hide and his anxiety began to make me anxious. I had nothing to offer him except the underside of the coffee-table in the living room. He was miserable, I was miserable, the cats were miserable. So I began the search for a new kennel. I have a very limited amount of space and wasn't looking for a full-sized one, just one where he could retreat when he needed to get away from it all.

Chelsea at Hero's Pets eventually sold me the perfect place for Duncan. It's a canvas collapsible kennel, the perfect fit for Roo, with screens on all four sides and on top, kind of a like a big, square tent. I tossed in his pillow, slipped Pooh Bear back in the corner, laid down his blanket and the afghan my mother made him last Christmas and led him inside. He loved it! He spun in a couple of slow circles, tamping the pillow down just so and then plopped down, his chin resting on Pooh's foot, a sleepy smile on his face.

But Dunc isn't the only one who likes it. More often than not I have to remove Olive and Pip, who curl around each other in tight little balls, the afternoon sun beating down on them. Winnie, who has always been the smartest, chooses to sleep up top, thus avoiding any forced relocation. Dunc is polite and doesn't want to disturb Olive, who is stubborn and aloof, and often peeks inside, sees her there and either hops up onto the bed with me or scurries back to the living room to crawl under the coffee-table. I've actually had to teach him that it's okay to give her the boot, which seems to suit him just fine. Now he ambles in on his own, rearranges the pillow and plops right down, Olive or no Olive. And she has learned that her old spot above my head on the pillow is ready and waiting. Winnie, of course, stays right where she is, barely batting an eye.

And the Winner Is...

Chelsea, at Hero's posted the photos of the costume contest entrants on her Hero's Pets Facebook Page and asked her friends and fans to vote for their favorites. Because she also works tirelessly to help adopt wayward animals, she said that if people voted for Oliver, the latest guest-in-residence (a beautiful twelve-year old cat who's mom was forced by her mean, new husband to get rid of him) that she would donate a twenty-five pound bag of food to the shelter where Oliver is from. So Oliver entered the contest dressed as.... (wait for it)... a basket case.

Three years ago Duncan entered the contest as a Greaser and took second place, beat by a lovely and anything-but-frightening pair of ghosts. This year the contest was tough but the voters decided Duncan, dressed as a snowboarder dude, complete with goggles and an unruly blond wig (which did not go over well) was the winner. We got to go in and pick our prize but decided that Oliver, who is an awesome guy, despite his extreme and very verbal dislike of dogs, deserved to be rewarded so we donated the prize to him and his shelter. Duncan, who was a trooper and did the right thing, got to pick out some new toys as his reward from me, so we finished out our Under the Sea Collection by bringing home Bubbles, a bright orange catfish, and Buck, a nearly neon green seahorse, to play with Duncan and his hammerhead, Bash.

Chelsea threw in a bag of Polka Dog Bakery Chicken Little Mighty Dog Treats and a tiny bit of something dried and curling which Dunc plucked out of a low basket and may have been a bit of bull junk or some winding internal organ at one point in its existence (I don't know. I don't care. I stopped asking after I helped with inventory a few years ago and had to count The Wall of Terror and its baskets of grizzly, greasy contents).

I'm happy we could help Oliver and his friends back at the rescue and happy that Dunc made even more friends.

Where the Wild Things Aren't

Some things are worth waiting for, and while the circumstances are not the best, the outcome––for Duncan and me and all the other dogs here at Raccoon Creek––has been worth the wait.

This morning I stood on my balcony, thirty-seven steps above the parking lot, and watched Pete and his wife pack the last of their belongings into a U-Haul, leash up Gil, take one last look around and then drive away from here forever. After a year of avoiding the little clearing among the buildings where the bunnies play, the place I dubbed The Lair after that night Pete stood idly by while his demon German Wire-Haired Pointer attacked Duncan, it is finally safe to venture back among the slowly budding Linden trees and low shrubs where the little birds hop and chirp.

There has been much talk of Pete and Gil among the residents here the past year. Despite Pete's initial assurance that Gil was friendly, the evidence was firmly against him. Nearly everyone I spoke with loathed the dog and had their own horrific encounters with them to share. Management had been made aware of them numerous times since my official report last July. Even Chelsea, owner of Hero's Pets, who lives in the building directly across from mine, who loves dogs and typically holds their companions responsible for their behavior, insisted there was something wrong with "that dog."

I'd heard a rumor a few weeks ago that they were moving but refused to believe it until I'd actually seen them depart. The circumstances of their departure, however, are quite sad. I'd noticed Pete's gray Ford Ranger sitting in the parking lot since January, often not moving for weeks at a time. I saw his wife walking Gil but for a long time Pete was nowhere to be found. The neighbor who told me they were leaving lives directly below them and confessed that Pete, no more than thirty years old, had suffered a stroke shortly after Christmas, and while he had survived and recovered, he was no longer able to drive. He'd been fortunate and was able to return to work but his wife had to drive him. Working on opposite sides of the city the daily commute had finally taken its toll and they'd decided to move closer to Pete's job to reduce the burden on her.

While I am sad to hear of Pete's health I cannot help but rejoice at their departure. I'd often stood outside in the early evenings watching them play off-leash with him and hoped they'd leave when their lease was up, I just didn't wish it to be under these circumstances.

I wish them well and hope they were able to get a nice big fenced-in yard where Gil can run, far away from other dogs which he is so obviously incapable of interacting with.

In the meantime, Duncan and I have a lot of new bunnies with whom to acquaint ourselves. And The Lair needs a new name for the monsters and wild things have finally taken their leave.

Pay It Forward

Today is Pay it Forward Day. If you're unfamiliar with the concept what that means is that you go out into the world and do three random good deeds for perfect strangers while encouraging them to do the same as "payment" for your generosity. Not only does it benefit the person receiving your good will, it also fosters a stronger sense of community and connectedness. The deeds can be anything, large or small. The first time I received a Pay it Forward gift was at a toll booth in Chicago when I was informed that the person in the car in front of me had paid my toll. I was so touched that from that point on I always paid for the car behind me. That one simple gesture spawned years of gratitude returned to others.

Here are the three things I did today:

First, through Facebook I learned about a friend of a friend, a good woman who through no fault of her own (if we're looking to blame anyone we can blame the health care industry!) is on the verge of losing the home she has lived in for twenty years. The single mother of a nine year old son, she has struggled to stay ahead, but because of a car accident her insurance company refused to cover, has fallen behind. Having no other place to turn she used Facebook as a resource, asking if 100 people could donate $45 to help her stop foreclosure on her home. You can read more about her story here. Even though I struggle myself I decided that even I could spare the money and support her cause. I urge each of you to do the same. You don't have to donate $45, but any amount would be greatly appreciated.

Second, I stopped by Hero's Pets, my home away from home, and told Kathy, Chelsea's mother, that I wanted to buy the next person in line's food, explaining that she needed to tell them that they were the recipient of a Pay It Forward gift. Not long thereafter a woman who's dog was ill approached the counter with three cans of a special diet formula and a bottle of tummy tamer. Kathy explained that she owed nothing and had only to do three good deeds for other people in payment. The woman had no idea I was responsible but she was incredibly grateful and couldn't stop thanking Kathy for the gift, promising to play her part in the process.

Third, while at the park with Duncan, we stopped by Starbucks where I purchased a gift card for $10. When the clerk handed it back to me I told him to keep it and give it to the next person in line, telling them that they needed to do something kind for three other people. As I explained it to him, his face lit up and I could see his mind racing. I didn't buy a drink but simply left the store and walked Duncan down to the place where the bunnies roost and watched his little leg quiver with anticipation at the sight of them.

These were simple things and incredibly easy to do. And after I completed each I walked away feeling proud of myself and happy to live in a world where such concepts exist. A free latte does not change anyone's life, but it can change how people look at each other and, hopefully, bring about a change that even I cannot imagine.

You can play Pay it Forward any day, not just April 29th. If you've come to this blog the day or week or month after, it's not too late to take part in the movement. What change can your small gesture bring about? Tell me what will you do when you're done reading?

Comfort at Sunset

Duncan dragged me to the lake tonight, a place we have looked upon but not visited recently. He was on another of his missions it seemed, pulling me behind him, that determined and set look on his face, ignoring the rustling of the leaves in the shrubs where the rabbits crouch, slipping past the trunks of the trees where the squirrels squat and watch the day pass from indigo to blue to gold and back to indigo. We cut across the park and up the hill near the library and down onto the path the leads past the restaurant and Hero's and around the bookstore and the coffee shop to the quiet side where the retirees have built a small community, their front doors and porches facing the shore and the sunrise but never the sunset.
It was quiet out, as though the world was holding its breath, afraid to move 'less the warmth of the day and the season be startled away and replaced with clouds and wind and gray. Dunc sniffed the edges of the path, found a nice tall clump of grass to examine for a few moments and then redoubled his efforts at leading me in the direction of his choosing. Not long into our walk we caught up with a woman pushing a tiny beaming face with a mop of blond curls in a stroller. As we pulled alongside them Dunc slowed his pace and huffed once or twice to catch her attention. She looked at me and smiled, but when her eyes settled on Roo her pace slowed and something in her turned and caught itself.

"Your dog is beautiful," she said. "We have––had one the same color. Her name was Maggie. We had to put her to sleep three weeks ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I offered. "Was she with you a long time?"

She smiled and nodded and loosened her grip on the stroller just a bit. "Yes, she was fifteen. Last year when she turned fourteen we threw her a big birthday party and all the family came. And not just the dogs. Everyone. We didn't think she'd make it to fifteen." She looked away and out at the lake, which caught the colors of the sky and somehow made them truer than the originals. "But she did. Fifteen plus three days."

"You're very blessed to have had so much time with her," I said.

Duncan stepped up beside her and brushed her leg as he passed. She smiled and reached down with one hand to stroke his back. Her fingers traced the curls on his shoulders. "He looks so much like her. Same color. Same curls. They could be twins." A flash of embarrassment crossed her face as she withdrew her hand and placed it back on the stroller.

"Would you like to pet him?" I asked. "I think he'd like that very much."

She faltered a moment and then came to a slow and awkward stop. Duncan eased up beside her and without being told sat down. She clicked the lock on the wheel of the stroller and then knelt before him, watching my face for any sign of impatience or weariness. I smiled and nodded.

And then she buried her face in Duncan's chest, ran her fingers over his ears and down his shoulders, entwining them in the long hair on his back. She pulled herself into him and Duncan merely sat and watched, sniffed her hair, breathed softly in her ear. I dropped the leash and let them sit together on the lake path. She hugged him tightly, played with a paw and kissed his cheek, causing his tail to thump once or twice. I was proud of him and not at all shocked by her sudden display of emotion, and yet there was a part of me that felt obligated to say something, to offer some word of consolation. But that was not my part to play. Duncan had led me here for her and for him. My job was to remain silent. So I turned and looked out on the last colors of the day and listened to the gentle splash of the ducks skirting the beach, the silence of the moment, the very soft sighs of the woman grieving her loss.

There is too much noise in this world. Not enough comfort and quiet.

Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.

("Next Time" Mary Oliver)

Sometimes the walks are not for me at all, but the silence I have to offer to the world.

A Marked Man

I was late getting home. First I had my boot camp class right after work, then I was forced to stop by the store to grab the pack of Nutter Butters I've been craving all week, and then, because I didn't go yesterday, I had to run to Hero's to pick up food for Duncan. By the time I got home it was dark and Duncan was more than ready to walk.

It was a lovely night, warm and windless. The sky was deep purple, tinged with city-light orange on the horizon but clear and starry deep in its middle where it counts most. The elms, white and stark, and almost completely naked, rose up around the park's perimeter like giant skeletal hands pointing out the lowering Dipper and returning Orion. Far to the north, and just beginning to peek over the western mountains, is the front that brought sleet and snow to southeast Idaho this morning, the same one that will make tomorrow cold and wet. But tonight was perfect and even though my legs were already stiffening up and I desperately needed a shower, I didn't mind an extra long walk with Roo around the baseball diamonds, up to the lake, and then back down to see the bunnies.

Not long into our walk, though, we ran into The Shepherds, who have formed an alliance with every other shepherd and their companion who walk the park. They travel in an enormous pack, sometimes exceeding six or seven dogs, not all shepherds but almost all of whom are big and off leash. So far none of the other dogs have been hostile, but I still feel nervous when our paths cross, especially since it's obvious they've all been told who I am.

The pack split up, but one shepherd and a poodle remained. They trotted up to us and immediately leaned into me when I knelt down to pet them. Duncan sniffed each in turn while both dogs happily licked my face and hands, sniffed my pockets for the organic wild boar treats I keep in there, and doted on me. Roo paced nervously around us, trying to step in, trying to win back my attention, but when that didn't work he did the only thing he could thing of: he raised his leg and pissed all over me.

Not them. Not the cinnamon shepherd who smelled like lavender and wanted nothing more than to press herself against me while her companions watched. Not the black poodle, who kept thrusting her Frisbee into my hand in the vain hope that I would toss it for her to chase after.

No, Duncan stood right next to me and let fly with a hot stream of urine, which zigged up my rib cage to my neck, zagged across my arm and chest, and then dribbled down onto my legs.

Both dogs instantly backed away and Duncan moved right in, rolling into me, pushing his face into my legs and sliding as much of his body against the dry side of me as possible.

He is not mine. We are not each others.

I am his.

Point made.

Happy Birthday, Dunc!

"We are always the same age inside." (Gertrude Stein)

It was Duncan's birthday today so we stopped by Hero's and picked up a new rope toy and a Bully Stick, which is now gone, along with the oatmeal cupcake Chelsea slipped him. After that it was a walk around the lake in the sunshine, a quick, mad rush at a flock of ducks resting on the shore and dinner at home. I made him the same "cake" as last year, although I swapped the raw chicken for rabbit, and topped it with rice, fresh blueberries and drizzles of chocolate. He could hardly contain himself and even let me put a new homemade hat on while he licked the remainder from his nose and cheeks.

Happy birthday, Duncan. Papa loves you with all his heart!

Vote for Hero's!

I'm counting on all my loyal readers to do me a favor for Chelsea, the owner of Hero's Pets, Duncan's favorite store. Hero's sells only top-of-the-line products, all organic and earth-friendly, manufactured by companies who are socially responsible and dedicated to providing only the best products for our animal companions. Chelsea is tireless at doing research and can answer just about any question posed to her. She has been one of Duncan's biggest fans, and I, in turn, try to do everything I can to encourage and bolster her business.

One of Denver's local news stations is holding a vote for the best business in Littleton and Hero's was nominated in the category of Pet Supplies. I know most of you don't live in our neck of the woods, but it would be wonderful if you could register to vote (it's quite simple and doesn't require anything of you!) and support Chelsea. The winner receives a ton of free publicity, which Hero's definitely deserves. When they ask for your zip code, simply use mine: 80123.

Please register and cast your vote here. It would mean the world to me. Additionally, it would be great if you visited her site and dropped her an email to let her know how important she's been in influencing Duncan's health and keeping his papa sane and happy. It's the least I can do for her after all the advice, education and love she's showered on Duncan and me.

Thank you!

While Washing Duncan

I think Duncan rolled in something dead last night. If it wasn't dead it should've been. It certainly deserved to be.

But then if he hadn't rolled in whatever it was, I wouldn't have been mistaken for a twenty-two year old by the young man--nay, boy-- who worked at Wag 'N Wash where Duncan got his bath.

While my friend Rex and I stood outside chatting late last night, the dogs circled around the trees, mingling with the moths and occasionally vanishing into the shadows for a few moments at a time. Obidos, Rex's Chow/Shepherd/something else mix was good and stayed relatively close, coming when called and keeping his nose close to my pocket where I kept the bag of treats. Duncan, however, crawled down into the lower levels of Hell where he found the most disgusting thing imaginable and decided he wanted to share it with me, a surprise he waited to spring on me until he climbed into bed and nestled down against my pillow. Needless to say, he was banished from the room and pouted in the living room all night and well into the morning.

It has been a hectic day and the rest of the week promises to be just as crazy. You see, my friend Ruth is flying in from Minneapolis on Wednesday so that Thursday morning we can hop in the car and drive to Pocatello where we will celebrate our twenty year high school reunion. We're very excited, but of course these things tend to bring up some silly concerns about age and mortality and other such pleasantries. Naturally an adventure of this magnitude requires a lot of prep: an oil change, a car wash, a hair cut, cleaning of the apartment, laundry, packing, making arrangement for Ken to tend to the cats, and all the rest of it. Discovering that your best friend smells like rotting carcas dipped in Linden dust tends to alter the plans considerably.

So tonight, after working late and missing my chance to get an oil change, I raced home, grabbed Duncan, took him to Hero's to buy enough raw food to see him through our trip home, and then headed to Wag 'N Wash where I discovered I'd missed the last chance to give him a bath. I pleaded, offered to clean up my station and gave them the best puppy dog eyes I could manage, even explaining that this was the one chance I had before tossing him into my car for a nine hour drive to southeast Idaho. Finally, in utter desperation I made them actually sniff him, at which point they cracked under the pressure and gave me a tub, a hose and a supply of freshly washed towels.

And while I washed Duncan, spraying him and kissing his nose as he whined and looked at me like I was torturing him, the nicest young man--nay, boy--made our acquaintance, offering a few pointers and helpful tips while standing awfully close and asking all sorts of questions,which eventually led to me revealing I was venturing home to attend my twenty-year high school reunion.

He cocked his head. "You graduated in '89?" he asked. His eyes grew wide and he stepped back. "That's the year my parents graduated."

It was almost like getting kicked in the nuts, only not as pleasant.

"Sorry, man," he stammered. "I thought for sure you were my age, maybe a little older. Seriously. I thought you were twenty-two."

"You're very kind," I told him. "But you're too late."

"I'm eighteen, " he offered and I pretended not to know what he really meant. And even though I can still hear those words ringing in my ears, That's the year my parents graduated-- a sound not unlike the time I hit an elk and heard the imagined echoing crunch as it smashed against the side of my car for weeks afterward--I have to admit I smiled all the way out the door, Duncan, clean and fluffy, prancing at my side.

It may have been twenty years since I was in high school, but I still have it. Oh yeah.

Now if only I can find the time to get an oil change.