December Feather

"A willing heart adds feather to the heel." (Joanne Baillie)

We have encountered our owl nearly every night we've walked this week. Since stumbling upon him last year in his perch I have been unable to pass the tree without thinking of that moment when I looked up into his big eyes, so close and round and so very yellow, even in the darkness. Every night I have looked for him there in that crooked and ugly elm growing near the top of the hill above the playground, sickly in its nakedness and overrun with jagged, crowded branches and impatient twigs, wondering if we'd find him as we did last year, unexpectedly and with sudden joy, but it hasn't been. We have seen him circling high overhead, heard him from some perfect, invisible spot above the shore of the lake, have even watched him drift in lazy, motionless circles over our heads but we have never come as close as we did that first night when I could have reached out a mittened hand and stroked the softness of his chest.

This morning, early, when the world was still gray and smelled of the damp, long before the sun rose above the sloppy clouds in the east, as we loped across the big soccer field, my shoes squishing in the new mud left behind by the last of the week's snow, our owl cut right in front of us, falling out of the bottommost branches of one elm, gliding across the field right in front of us, and alighting near the top of a larger tree where its head bobbed and twisted in that alien and unsettling way. As he crossed our path a single feather, small and immaculately white wafted down toward us. Duncan craned his neck to watch the big bird while I took a few steps forward and plucked the feather out of the yellowed grass where it had come to rest. It was a reminder that in a few short weeks I'll be packing up the car again, loading Duncan into the back seat where he can--but won't--rest amid a pile of blankets and pillows, a few toys scattered around him. We will make the long trek back to Idaho for the holidays. And as last year, I'm a little anxious at the thought of being alone on the road in whatever conditions The Universe decides to throw at us. Having proven to myself last Christmas that the trip could be made even in the most difficult weather I am not as frightened, and the feather dropping out of the sky like a wish or a prayer has reminded me of the magic feathers I collected last year and the good they did me, or rather, the good they showed me I could do for myself.

And so, here I am again, inviting you to send me a feather for the road, a blessing of safe passage and strong heart. If you choose to send one they can be anything vaguely featherish. Last December I received newspaper clippings, paintings and watercolors, ink drawings, stuffed animals, music and actual feathers from a variety of birds: peacocks, pheasants, hawks, parrots, crows, geese, even feathers shaped like butterflies. As long as it has a whispered good wish I would love to include it in the silver-ish gold bag Kevi sent me to hold them all. Send me an email and I'd be glad to provide you with my address.

The Hunt

There were two hunters behind our building tonight, Duncan, scouring the fence line and tree trunks where the rabbits curl in tight little balls, and the owl which swept down low in front of us as it too scanned the grass with its enormous yellow eyes. I'd seen it alight on top of the building earlier while talking on the phone, but afterward, when we took our last walk––our cold, late-night walk––it appeared suddenly, crossing my field of vision before coming to rest on top of the fence. As we neared, it took to the air again, landing atop another building and carefully marking our progress along the fence. Duncan seemed oblivious, his nose to the ground. Quite often we chase down a rabbit on our return from the park; they hide motionless in the grass, ears tucked down next to their bodies, until we are nearly on top of them, before they spring up and dart a zig-zag pattern across the lawn, cutting a wild path through the frost or snow as they scuttle toward the edge of the building and the shrubs that offer safety there. It became obvious that the owl was using us to startle up its prey and I wondered what would happen when Duncan finally came across one, whether or not we'd be witness to a quick flutter of wings from above and a scream as a rabbit was caught. Fortunately for the rabbits we reached home and as we turned inside I looked once more up at the tall brown body staring down at us, its head swivelling and jerking as it peered in our direction.

Funny, for weeks we've been seeking it out at The Owl Tree, returning almost nightly to the tree we found it in. Perhaps it's been seeking us as well.

A Catch in the Park

It had been a quiet night with hardly any noise except the sound of the world getting ready to snow, the last of the leaves seeming to vibrate under the delicate touch of a snow so fine it's not even visible, except as a half-imagined mist. I put on my heavy blue coat, the one with the drawstring hood, and we'd walked without incident around the baseball quads, up through the playground and past the Owl Tree, finally landing on the edge of the skatepark. The temperature had dropped sharply earlier in the afternoon and the sky had clouded over, tinging the world in the orange haze of the street lamps, which wore halos in the sudden frigid humidity. It seemed darker than usual and as we came over the hill, I had to squint into the lights on Bowles to see. The park was completely empty and I'd dropped the leash so Duncan could trot freely at my side while we walked.

It was here that Duncan made his catch.

It was the first time we had the skate park all to ourselves. It seems there's always at least one kid there, like they've assigned shifts or something to some thuggish looking brute of a twelve year old who smokes and who on more than one occasion has asked me to buy him beer. Normally the skate park is packed, with all shapes and sizes of teenagers–most of them androgynous in their baggy clothes–or the younger kids whose parents have driven them over and are sitting on the perimeter watching and trying to ignore the swearing, groping and making out which goes on all around. It's not my favorite place to walk (I always feel old and square–do people even still say "square?") but when I saw it abandoned tonight I thought it would be fun to play in the maze-like flow of sunken concrete.

Duncan followed me to the edge and we got our first look. The entire thing sits on the edge of a hill overlooking one of the long double soccer fields and is submerged fifteen feet or so. It rises and falls in smooth waves and has built-in railings to ride, along with steps and every other manner of object a young skater could hope to vandalize in any regular parking lot or open space. I tossed Duncan his ball and stepped after him into the pit. His nails scratched across the concrete as he scrambled down one side and slid halfway up the next. We explored and played for several minutes, until Duncan finally became bored and grew curious near the grass at the far lip of one of the halfpipes.

I watched him sniff for a moment, the ball dropping from his mouth and rolling down near where I stood. As I reached for it and looked back up I saw his sniffing had become more frantic and Dunc was circling back and forth, big clouds of his breath rising up before him. Oh no, I thought, rushing up the side to grab at his leash before something darted away, taking my excited dog with it. Just as I reached the lip, my hand grabbing for the leash, I saw him lunge at the grass, snatch something up in his jaws and shake his head powerfully from side to side.

"Duncan," I cried, leaping forward, catching him by the collar.

It was as though he was something else, something not my dog at all, something operating completely on instinct. His head shook back and forth and this strange growl came from deep down in his chest.

And then I saw it. It was pale, with two long, unmoving limbs that looked like bones swaying loosely , or perhaps limp pale ears coming down from a darker, hairy body. It's already dead, I thought, Nothing alive hangs so limp. And then I remembered the story earlier in the summer of the discovery of Bubonic Plague in several squirrels and rabbits around the metro area, including Littleton. We'd been at The Breakers when the story broke and only a few days later Duncan and I had stumbled across a dead squirrel in the grass outside one of the apartment buildings. Duncan had nudged the thing and when it didn't move he'd looked up at me forlornly, as if confused about why it didn't want to play and scamper up the nearest tree. I'd pulled him away, concerned he'd come into contact with the fleas. For days, even after the squirrel had been removed, he'd sniffed at the spot, always looking at me from under those expressive eyebrows as though he needed an explanation. All this flashed through my mind in the blink of an eye

"Duncan," I yelled, lowering my voice to what I imagined was a suitable disapproving alpha male tone. "Drop it!" When he didn't and shook the thing even harder I made the demand again, imagining a repeat of last year, but instead of 500 feet of swallowed yarn it would be an expensive treatment for The Plague, the pandemic which reduced the world's population by one third in only four years. The Black Death, sleeping in my bed, cuddling on the couch.

Before I knew what I was doing, I was reached toward him, clamped my fingers into the place where his jaws come together and using his lips, pried his mouth open. With my other hand I grasped at the rabbit, my stomach tightening as my mouth filled with saliva. My hand curled around what I thought was a limp and dangling ear and as I grasped it I thought It's so smooth. And cold. Duncan dropped it as I pulled it free, and as I prepared to fling it aside I caught a glimpse of thick dark hair pulled back in... a ponytail?... and a small body covered in... what was that, a mini skirt?

Duncan sat down on the edge of the concrete, his tongue hanging out of his mouth watching me gag down my revulsion at holding the mangled and disease-ridden body of Jade, a Bratz™ Princess doll. His tail thumped twice and he almost seemed to smile.

Flight Plan

While Duncan restlessly searches the ground for rabbits, rabbit droppings, places rabbits have hunkered down, my eyes have turned upward toward the stars. It was a perfectly clear night tonight so I did what I've wanted to do for a week which was search out the comet. Unfortunately I can't tell a jet from a satellite from a star, or even a weather balloon. But I don't think it matters because even when we don't know what things are we can make them wondrous simply by imagining they are.

As we mounted the hill above the lake a single very bright star (or was it a planet? I don't know and in the course of trying to figure it out I've frustrated myself and abandoned astronomy completely) was shining just over the rounded tops of the foothills. While Duncan sniffed and scratched the base of a sapling I watched the planes come in from the south west, perhaps from LA or Vegas, but it appeared as though they were coming in directly from that brilliant... heavenly body. They lined right up with it, slowly descending from the mountains and sweeping across Littleton before turning in a long, wide arc toward the airport. I smiled and watched for nearly five minutes as one by one the planes followed the same trajectory from Planet Who Knows What to DIA.

It reminded me of this place we went to when I was in college. We called it Northern California, although in truth it was nothing more than a bluff in Lake Forest that overlooked Lake Michigan. We'd drive out there in the late afternoons, and sometimes at night, quite often high, but not always, and look out across the lake, imagining we were looking over the Pacific. We'd christened it Northern California because it resembled the hilly, rolling green land with it's jutting peninsulas and wide tree-lined bays. At night we'd sit for hours watching the planes appear on the horizon, rising, it seemed, right out of the lake, and fly straight toward us before veering sharply south toward O'Hare.

We all have our flight plans and trajectories and sitting on that bluff in Illinois thirteen years ago I never would've been able to imagine myself on a hilltop in Denver doing the very same thing, enjoying the planes as they appeared on the horizon from unknown origins. I would've believed the people standing with me had similar flight plans and that remaining close to them wouldn't be so hard, especially the ones I loved the most.* My plans did not include working at this sad little college nor spending so much time walking and talking about walking while thinking about other things, gazing at the stars, looking backward in time.

I was unable to identify Comet Holmes, or rather, if I did I was unable to recognize it as a comet but as just another white speckly thing located somewhere in the constellation of Perseus. But the universe, which I believe provides for us in the same way that some people believe God does, did not want me to leave empty handed. As Duncan and I turned back toward home (Duncan had his own flight plan which seemed situated somewhere under the shrubs between the playground and our Owl Tree), I watched the sky split in half, cut down the middle by a white hot blur that sparked and burnt the night. I caught my breath and watched the meteorite (a Leonid?) burst brilliantly above me and then as it moved toward the milky horizon, sputter and fade away.

It was wonderful and reminded me that I am still standing exactly where I am supposed to be.

*To Rick. It's Good to Know You're Still There
(Photo courtesy of Google Images)

So Well

I will admit, I rushed through our walk tonight, and who besides Duncan wouldn't have done it, too? Today was our first real cold day of the season. It didn't snow and it wasn't windy, but not even the sun on the sidewalk offered any sort of warmth. It was a back-tightening cold, sucking the breath out and not even allowing you to convince yourself that the fresh air felt nice. It was dark when I got home and my ears and neck were pink before we'd even crossed Bowles. I decided to skip walking up the hill toward the playground to search for the owl we saw last week, a trip we've made every night since.

As we crossed the small ditch into the park and I dropped the leash, Duncan trotted at my side, waiting for me to throw his ball, which I'd purposefully left behind. I thought of all the things we know about and have come to expect from each other, no different than best friends.

I know that Duncan always pees in the same place near the gates that open onto Bowles and that he waits to poop until we get near the trash barrel just inside the park. I can discern his restless sniffing from his more serious, deep in concentration attempt to pick the perfect spot to go sniffing. I can also differentiate between whining at the door for fun from whining at the door because things are about to get desperate. Even in my sleep I know when to tell him to lay back down and when to get up and let him out.

When I get home from work Duncan knows that we're not about to go for a walk until I've changed my shoes. If I skip that process, as I sometimes do, he gets confused and seems surprised when I reach for the leash. He also knows when I'm taking him for a walk and when I'm letting him out for a quick bathroom break.

I know he will not get out of bed for his morning walk until after he's heard me turn off the shower, dry off and get dressed. Once I set the water on the kettle for my morning tea he ambles down the hall and waits until he gets to my feet to stretch and "Mmmmhrrrr" and blink at me with droopy, morning eyes.

Duncan knows that when we return from a walk I always kiss him on the nose as I remove his collar and leash. He'll sit back, turn his head up to mine and wait for me to say, "Good walk. Yay, Duncan" and plant one on the pointed top of his head.

I know that Duncan is just as surprised as me when Winnie brushes her head up against him and cuddles down with her hips touching his side. She won't admit it to either of us, but she loves him, and when she offers her occasional brief display of love, Duncan will lay very still, the cocking of his brow in my direction his only movement. He will chase Pip and let him climb all over him, and even though Olive nuzzles his chest, it is Winnie's approval and affection he is most surprised and rewarded by.

Duncan knows that if he wants the best spot on the bed he needs to wait until I am asleep before he claims it. I prefer him laid out against my chest, but once my breathing becomes deep and regular, he can move down toward the middle and stretch out long and flat–sprawl is probably a more accurate word–forcing me to one side or the other. He knows I won't disturb him and that's when he begins to snore.

Duncan knows when I arrive home from work and somehow manages to greet me at the door every day. I'm not sure if he's memorized the way the light slants across the grass and sidewalk outside the window or if he can hear me, but I've tried parking in different spots and avoiding the bedroom window where he surveys the world with the cats from the comfort of our bed all day. I've snuck in around back and even come home at different times, and he is always waiting with his bird-like chirrup the minute I open the door. The only exception to this was the day I came home to ensure I'd turned off the kettle and he was snoring into my pillows.

When I come home I know if there's been a rare accident by the way his head hangs low and guilty and he looks at me from under his eyebrows down the long length of his nose.

Duncan knows when I'm sad and will whine to comfort me. I can cry at a movie and he's immediately at my side, paw on my lap, nuzzling his face against mine. Once a few months ago I awoke from a dream in tears. I was barely conscious of it before I felt him turn over in bed, plant a big paws on my shoulder and lick the tears from my cheeks, offering a warm and comforting sigh in my ear.

Duncan knows that if he can stick his Berry or one of his play bones or his slobbery tennis ball into my open palm my fingers will almost always close around it and he'll be able to play tug with me. Occasionally during our nighttime games of fetch, hide and go seek or tug of war I'll play dead. Duncan will spend the first minute or so trying to insert whichever toy we've been playing with into my hand, but when that doesn't work he'll begin nibbling on my fingers, which evolves into licking, which will move from my hand to my head. When those tactics fail to rouse me, he'll gently lay his head on my chest and whine until the guilt forces me to stop and I grab him, throw my arms around him and and roll around on the floor.

I know that every night before bed it's time for a bath which means Duncan gets to lay on top of me and groom me as if I were his pup. He will lick every inch of my head, from my neck up to my crown. I've learned to let him do it, and the only place off-limits is my nose. Most people who've seen it shake their heads and wonder how I can stand it–some have even called it gross–but he's my best friend and it's something I've grown to accept and love.

We look after each other, Duncan and I, and that's how we've come to know each other so well.

Pockets

There are pockets in the night that reveal secrets and sudden nuggets of wonder that can be stumbled upon and, if you're not paying attention, passed through without notice. Tonight's pockets were deep and luckily Duncan and I were willing to explore and revel in them without any sense of urgency. It was not cold, there was no wind, and we were able to enjoy our walk in the quiet of Clement Park at our own pace.

One of my favorite things while walking is unexpectedly stumbling upon the Downey scent of someone doing their laundry. The drier vents at the buildings in our complex are on the back side nearest the street and sometimes, if we're lucky, we catch a whiff of warm fabric softener on the air. Sometimes it lasts only a few seconds and other times I can stand with my eyes closed in the park across the street and breath it in. I don't know what it is about Downey, but perhaps it reminds me home. My first year at Lake Forest I looked forward to my Sunday nights trapped in the laundry room, washing clothes and catching up on my reading. The smell of drier sheets made me feel connected to something in a place where I had yet to forge connections. And although I don't miss that isolation I felt my first semester, I miss that part of me that yearned for home, the part I lost when I made my own home. Tonight the air was rich with Downey and I didn't mind Duncan's unending sniffing along the hedges or in the dark corners of the buildings. I simply followed him and followed my nose.

I'd taken a jacket for our walk but as we moved through the park I took it off and tucked it under my arm. The night was warm and the stars were bright and it felt good to take deep breaths and close my eyes as Duncan guided me. As I tossed the ball for him, which more often than not I had to chase down because he hadn't seen where it landed, I stepped through pockets of cool air that brought a quick rush to the exposed skin of my face and arms, and then, as quickly as I'd stumbled into it, I stumbled back out into the strange warmth of this November night.

On the other side of the baseball field Duncan found a stick, not quite perfect, but one that so captivated him he couldn't part with it. Although it was nearly perfect in girth and was smooth to the touch, it was easily five feet long–more of a staff than a stick–and not easy to carry. I dropped the leash and watched as he lifted it in his jaws, raised his head up and attempted to keep either end from touching the ground. He carried it a few yards before deciding it would be best to stop and chew on it. So he did and there was nothing I could do to move him from his spot. I sat down next to him, scratched his belly while he gnawed on the end of the thing. After thirty minutes or so I finally pulled it away from him and managed to carry it over my head as he hopped along beside me in an effort to reclaim his prize as we continued our walk through the park.

Up top, near the playground, we stopped at a tree and I happened to look up and directly into the large golden eyes of an owl, which had taken roost on a limb just above me. Its head swiveled in that strange raptor way, blinked and looked past me, at the low hedges, maybe looking for a mouse or something else small and warm. It was a big thing and dark brown, almost invisible against the night, except for those eyes. It cocked its head and when Duncan finally saw it and climbed against the trunk of the tree the owl fell forward, unfolded its wings and glided silently to the next tree where it landed–higher this time–without a sound. We followed it and I couldn't help but feel as though we were infringing upon something sacred, maybe something dark, something beautiful I shouldn't know about. But I couldn't help it. It had moved with such silence and ease that I was reminded how lucky I was to walk upright in the daylight and not scurry in the shadows, a meal with a tail. I watched it scrutinize us, which felt somehow special, as if we'd caught the attention of something royal, but when it looked away I felt small and unimportant, unworthy and uninteresting. A woman and her beagle passed quite near us and neither of us pointed out the bird; instead we kept it to ourselves, our secret gift of the night.

It was hard to come home, difficult to cross Bowles with a jumping dog leashed on one arm and a walking stick balanced overhead in the other. I did not want it to end and wondered what other gems were out there waiting to be discovered, things that only Duncan and I were meant to share.

If not tonight, maybe soon.