All That

Spring is all around, at least for today. Tomorrow and the rest of the week are looking rather bleak (once again, look out dear friends in the Midwest), but today Spring was here, or rather, Colorado's version of it. The sky was gray but the air and sun were warm and as long as that wind that creeps down through the mountains kept quiet it was actually quite nice. All I needed was a sweatshirt and a light jacket, my sunglasses and a couple of poop bags (for Dunc, not myself) and I was good to go. Duncan just needed his leash and my pocket full of Grandma Lucy pumpkin treats (which I like to snack on as well).

We walked down near the lake and even though the trees are still quite bare, and the reeds along the shore rather yellow, the ducks were guarding their nests, the gulls were singing songs to one another and the gnats were out in full force. We passed through clouds of the things along the trail and each time I squeezed my lips closed and felt them brush against my cheeks and neck like fine, silky feathers caught in the air. Even the other walkers seemed caught up in Spring, holding hands, leaning into one another, lowering their voices to whisper sweet things to each other. I couldn't help but smile at them. "She got flowers and she wouldn't tell us who they were from," one Juicy Bun said to another as they marched past us in their velour track suits, ponytails bouncing behind them. "I can't fight this feeling any longer," sang our roller-blading priest (I'm still not sure if he's an actual priest or just someone who enjoys dressing as one while enjoying the outdoors) over his ear buds. We haven't seen him for many months and I actually got at excited at his appearance. Then there were the random snippets of conversations I caught passing several teenagers. "She's hot, man! And her mom's fine, too!" Or the girl talking to her boyfriend as they strolled ahead of us, arms entwined (and I'm not making this up), "She said she'd never have a threesome. I mean, who does she think she is?!"

Yes, Spring is certainly here. I'm so lucky to have Ken and happy that when I walk with Duncan all I have to do is walk and snap the occasional picture. All that guarding and speaking and singing and roller-blading and Juicy-Bunning and... threesome-ing. It just seems a bit much. Give me some tulips, a Golden Retriever and a warm day I'm good to go!

Cast of Characters

Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it; you walk your dog a lot. But who else is out there on the trail at the lake?

First there are The Fishers, those people who settle on the shore of the lake with their poles in hopes of catching one of the seeming hundreds of fish which leap from the surface every night at dusk. I never quite see them, but as we walk the trail I might catch a flash of silver, or a dark body cutting the water. Often times I hear the splash and turn only to the see the ripples fanning out in widening circles. They are elusive, these fish, but The Fishers believe they can net one. What they'd do with it once they caught it, I can't say. Most of them seem ill-prepared. Tonight, the role of The Fishers was played by a pudgy woman and her daughter, who wore too-tight jeans. They'd spread a veritable gourmet buffet feast out before them, and although they had the poles and a small tackle box, they lacked an actual net or anything that looked like something in which they could carry one. The daughter was disgusted at having to worm her hook, and her mother, too busy slicing pieces of some sort of focaccia sandwich, didn't seem interested enough to help out. They weren't the only ones, of course, but the others were mostly elderly men over from the retirement community on the south-western shore, all of whom looked deadly serious in their task, and could easily have been confused with one another.

Then there are the Juicy Buns, those women who wear the low-waisted velour warm-up pants with "cute" sayings stenciled across the cheeks: Juicy Buns, Rude Girl, Princess. These are the girls who are too young to have husbands and children, but are frantically searching for the perfect man to ignore and resent, someone to make their lives incomplete. They tend to travel in pairs, and if you see one, chances are the other is nothing to look at–the girl they keep to make themselves look prettier, or juicier, as the case may be. Despite their attempt at looking seductive, they come across as simply needy, and in good need of a self-esteem tune-up.

Quite often, but not always, we see The Horn Dogs, the returned Mormon missionaries who are out with their dates, walking the trail, always angling for the perfect view to share with the girls whom they're wooing. Rather than the normal mating dance rituals of booze and loud music, these young men ply their women with ice cream cones from the nearby shop and scenic views and questions like, "This is pretty right? Isn't this pretty?" They're clean-cut and fast approaching an age which, in their church, invites unwanted questions as to why they don't yet have wives. If there's a bench overlooking the sunset they'll practically froth at the mouth in an attempt to get their girls into it to share a quiet, romantic moment.

What group wouldn't be complete without The Jocks? Johnson Reservoir, as the lake is officially known, is bursting at the seams with countless runners, speed walkers (made up primarily of middle-aged women with low baseball caps and sunglasses), bicyclists and roller-bladers. They tend to do several laps around the lake to each one of ours, and although they say nothing, except an occasional, "On your left," they can be heard huffing up behind you, like some rut-crazy elk. My favorite Jock is the roller-blading priest. At least I think he's a priest. He's very tall, always wears a dark shirt with a white collar and either nylon shorts or warm-ups. The thing about him is his iPod, which he sings along with as if no one else can hear him. We see him nearly every day and it seems his collection is made up almost entirely of 80's power ballads, made popular by the likes of Night Ranger and REO Speedwagon.

Duncan and I belong to a class known as The Big Dogs. We're the ones with the big dogs, the labs and retrievers, the shepherds and boxers. There are a good number of terriers, bijon frise, maltese and chihuahuas, but these are usually owned by The Juicy Buns and occasionally tolerated by The Horn Dogs, who'll put up with anything just to get a wife (read: sex). The Doggers are those of us who say things like, "Leave it," all the time. It tends to take us longer to circumnavigate the lake as our pets stop every couple of feet to sniff or mark, or brush noses with other dogs. We make people like The Jocks nervous with our long leashes and our dogs desires to investigate both sides of the trail. We are the only group with our own signs, which I think sets us above the rest.

Regardless, we all enjoy the lake, and although we may not always greet one another, we do tend to smile or nod our heads, a shared silent language.