For Madi

Last night on Facebook I learned that our former neighbors and good friends Denise and Martin had to say farewell to their beloved Black Lab, Madi. It has been a very long time since we have seen them and much has changed in all our lives, but Denise, who was such a very good friend to me, especially during the early days of my anxiety, has always held a special place in my heart and is never far from my thoughts. 

Madi was Duncan's first friend. I'd been terribly nervous about socializing him as a puppy and it wasn't until we built our house and moved to Stapleton, befriending Denise and Martin, that his socialization really began. I didn't have much say in it actually. Denise is one of those magnificent people with a vibrant, take-no-prisoners spirit, and it was her confidence and good nature that allowed me to relax and let Duncan do what he was so supposed to do, which, apparently, meant racing tight circles around Denise's small front yard, chasing after and wrestling with Madi, who was patient and kind to him. She taught him everything he needed to know, and even took him swimming for the first time, and even after we moved all I had to do was say her name to send him, tail wagging, to the front door where he waited to be taken for a visit.

When I learned of Madi's journey across the Rainbow Bridge last night I went to Dunc, who was laying on the edge of the couch. I leaned down and whispered softly in his ear, "Roo, I'm sorry, but Madi is gone. She's no longer with us but maybe tonight on our walk we can watch for the new star in the sky where she is shining down on us." He listened to me, dropped his chin down low between his paws and sighed heavily, which made me tear up. A few minutes later he climbed down off the couch and ambled to his toy box where he dug through the contents until he found the toy he and Madi played with on their last adventure together, jumping in and out of the pool while Denise and I laughed and encouraged him to chase after the geese. It has been a long time since they have played together but I know he understood what had happened and needed time to grieve her loss in whatever way dogs do. We cuddled a long time, touching noses and crying, his paw resting atop mine.

We miss you, Denise. We miss Martin and Avery, too. And we will miss Madi. I am sorry for your loss but so thankful for the hours she spent with Duncan and the way their friendship cultivated our own.

The Return

When I sat down that afternoon in September 2007 to begin recording the story of my walks with Duncan, it had been a long terrible day, the highlight of which was witnessing a small, rebellious five-year old little-leaguer pee across the pristine white of second base to the amusement of his teammates and the shock and embarrassment of his mother. I'd been thinking about a blog based on our walks for a long time but hadn't quite decided what it would be like or whether there was much to actually say about walking with a dog. But that one defiant act seemed to crystallize everything for me, especially in the mood I was in, so I came home, logged into Blogger and typed the words "While Walking Duncan," not comprehending that that act would become such an enormous part of my life, or the experiences and opportunities it would present for the two of us. Our walks had never been just walks but suddenly, with the appearance of those words they became much more. They became magical. And so for the past four years I have dutifully reported on that magic, from the amazing to the minute, from the mountains climbed to the soft silences of standing alone together and simply watching the world be the world, a monumental thing that somehow goes unnoticed every minute of every day by so many millions of people.

The most magical thing, however, has been the people I've met because of Duncan and the blog. Occasionally they have approached me in the park to ask if we were who they thought we were and then gushed––actually gushed!––when they learned they were correct. And then there are the people and dogs we've stumbled upon through other blogs. I have spent more hours reading about other Goldens then I could count, have shared in their adventures across the vast distances and wept openly and unashamed when they have crossed the Rainbow Bridge, leaving a silence behind that is sometimes shocking considering we've never actually met. We have received gifts and condolences, cards and encouragement through challenging times, been buoyed by the hopes and faith of others. I am overwhelmed at how lucky I've been to discover kindred spirits out there in the deafening chaos of the internet and cannot imagine life without a blog, without these incredible people in it.

Last night was another incredibly magical moment for me. Lori, published novelist and author of Fermented Fur, and her wonderful husband, Tom, have been adventuring in Colorado and took the time out of their busy schedule to stop by and join us for a walk down The Run, through The Glen, around the lake, to herd the bunnies, climb the hill and relish the sweet golden cool of a summer thundershower, each drop a delicious blaze of amber against our skin. Lori is one of the first people who found my blog, one of my longest and most devoted readers, a person whose wit and heart I greatly admire. This was her second visit with Duncan, but it was Tom's first and I consider myself lucky to have met the man after all this time, to have thrown my arms around him and given him a hug as if we'd known each other for years and years. They brought gifts, we spent time chatting and drying off after our walk through one of Denver's daily afternoon, sunlit downpours, and then went to dinner together where we spoke like people who have known each a very long time. And when the evening was over, when they descended the stairs and their rental car drove away, Duncan and I stood a moment alone but warm, marveling at the strange workings of The Universe and, seven-hundred thirty-seven blog posts later, the magic that it weaves through us all.

Each friend represents a world in us, 

a world possibly not born until they arrive.  (Anäis Nin)

A New Star

Duncan and I crossed the street and meandered through the park as we have done more times than I could count. We bypassed the soccer hoards, skirting the edge of the park, around the four baseball diamonds to the low hill below the memorial where Dunc's bunnies roost. I dropped his leash and watched him explore, sniffing through the tall grass, under the low boughs of the pine trees and let him just be. He was graceful and cautious, diligent in his sniffing as only dogs can be, careful and vigilant, oblivious to my presence. And then when he was done he turned and smiled in my direction, ambled over, licked my cheek and dipped his head into the grass at my side, pushing himself against me, rolling over onto his belly to look directly into my eyes and the blue sky beyond. He was free to wander but he wanted to be there with me as much as I wanted to be with him, so I took his paw in my hand, leaned down and kissed it.

I am grateful for his presence by my side and will not take a single moment for granted. I am lucky to have him in my life and to feel a bond with such a special creature. And as I looked at him laying next to me, his paw cradled in my hand I thought of our blog friends Michael and Miguel and their own Golden companion Duncan, who crossed the Rainbow Bridge this afternoon after a day of being treated like a prince, given all the treats he couldn't enjoy when he was healthier, loved as much as he deserved. Their hearts are heavy tonight, no doubt, but I have been reminded of what a precious gift I have been given, what a tremendous responsibility it is to love and care for a soul as remarkable as that of a Golden but also what joy and happiness it brings with it. And tonight, on our last walk before bed, we will venture out, Duncan's nose to the grass while my eyes scan the sky for that new, bright star that has taken its place in the heavens, set to forever shine down on those who loved it so much in the brief time it was here.

Bless you, Michael, bless you, Miguel, and godspeed to your friend and companion. You are in my heart.

Goodbye Riley

My heart is breaking a little bit this morning. Last night we learned that Riley, Duncan's oldest friend, crossed The Rainbow Bridge suddenly and unexpectedly.


It was four years ago this week that Riley, who I'd known casually for some time, came to stay with us while Heather and Emma, his companions, were out of town. He was a big dog, wide and tall with a slow, lackadaisical gate and a face and heart that were without malice. He was a cuddler and one of the sweetest creatures I've ever wrapped my arms around and snuggled my chest and face into. He and Duncan hit it off right away, and although Duncan was still very much a puppy at the time, Riley was kind and patient with him, firm and also fun and a bit mischievous.

Over the course of the four days Riley stayed with us, he taught Duncan every one of the bad habits my boy now possess: climbing up on the counter, begging for food with the droopiest, saddest, most malnourished puppy dog eyes possible, barking at the door, chasing the cats. Most of them I have worked hard on removing, but when Dunc is sly it's because the Riley in him is coming out.

Last night I returned home to learn that Riley was gone Heather had found him on his side, his breathing labored. He was rushed to the vet where he passed shortly after arriving. When Heather called me we spent a good long time together crying and I told her, "He was so brave and strong for you. He didn't want you to worry about him and he didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. In a way, this was his final gift to you. He was very brave."

It was ten years ago this week that Ken and I moved to Colorado, leaving our two Goldens, Nikki and Ashley, with his family. We were dogless and miserable. Riley was the first Golden we got to spend time with, the first dog we befriended before bringing Duncan home. He loved us and gave us exactly what we needed when our hearts were sick from the absence of our own dogs. I will always be grateful to him for that, even when Duncan tries to sneak some food or puts his paws on my counter. From now on out, each time he does, rather than scold him I'll say hello to Riley and send a little blessing in his direction.


"All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle." (Saint Francis of Assisi)

Decade

Ten years ago tonight I was sitting in my dining room with Ken and April, Nikki and Ashley, our two Golden Retrievers, curled at our feet under our big oak table, while Winnie and Pip cuddled on the soft downy top of their tall kitty condo, half dreaming, half awake at the sounds of our laughter mixed with talk of the plans we were making. Our bags were packed and sitting near the door, two Frontier Airline tickets resting atop them. We'd eaten dinner and were discussing the early morning drive to Midway, the things April needed to do to tend to the animals, my anxiety over the entire trip. There had even been a great amount of talk about the shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton which had taken place earlier that day. At some point I stepped outside to let The Girls out, stood in the newly greening and damp grass in our backyard and smoked a cigarette while watching the stars move slowly across the sky. I could hear the soundtrack to Evita playing from inside while Ken and April did the dishes, the gentle chink of the tags on The Girls collars as they sniffed out the yard. I remember feeling like my life was on the cusp of a dramatic change and not liking it one bit. I have never been good at such things and despite my dislike for my job at CDW and the monotony of life in quiet, remote Round Lake Beach, there was comfort in its predictability, safety in routine.


Duncan and I walked the park today and only barely managed to safely navigate the flood of news vans and media which had gathered to mark the 10th anniversary of the shootings which took place at the high school across the street. It was not a pleasant walk, surrounded by sad faces and heavy hearts huddled together under the same blue sky that rose overhead ten years ago. Duncan was anxious and we didn't actually find peace in our walk until much later, when I took him out after dinner under a clear, darkened sky, the stars shining down as a warm April breeze carried the scent of the lake to us. It was the same sky I saw all those years ago in Illinois with the same constellations, only very little of that life remains. April has married and had children and we are no longer in contact, despite an immaculate and untouchable friendship. Nikki and Ashley have crossed the Rainbow Bridge and Winnie and Pip, while still full of vim and vigor, are nearly thirteen and spend far more time napping in the sunlit windows than they do chasing each other. Even Ken, who I always counted on as my constant, the one person who would always stand at my side, isn't here. I don't even own the same clothes I packed and carried across the country. It's all I can do to remember this new address.

But at least I have Duncan and our walks and the stars. On nights like tonight, when my heart feels like it's breaking, there is tremendous comfort to be found in those simple things.

Rainbow Bridge

I'm sad to report that Joey, companion to my friend Sally and her husband Mel, crossed the Rainbow Bridge last night. His vitals were good and strong but after numerous surgeries and no clear diagnosis, Joey made the decision for Sally and her husband, who had struggled with it the past several days. Shortly after they arrived, they each gave him a farewell kiss and held him as he took his final breath. The family is understandably saddened by the loss of their courageous little companion. The people at work, who have been offering their support and encouragement to Sally, were also sad to learn of Joey's passing.

Having endured Duncan's Great Yarn Crisis of 2006, a portion of which was spent at Alameda East, where Joey fought most of his battle, I know that caring for a pet under these circumstances can be quite expensive. I was lucky in that Team Duncan was able to offer financial support when Ken and I were unable to manage the cost of his medical bills on our own. Without their help, Duncan would not be with us today and the stories and thoughts I have shared with you for nearly a year on this blog would not have been possible. I am in debt to their generosity and compassion.

I know that these are difficult times we live in and that with the rising cost of gas and food it's hard to find any extra money, but I spoke with Lisa at Alameda East and learned that Joey's medical bills are considerable, especially since Sally and her husband are on a fixed income. It is my hope that with even the smallest of donations we can help them, even if only a little, to offset these expenses and give them time to grieve their loss rather than worry about money. If you'd like to donate (even $10 or $20 will help!), you can do so by credit card or check. Credit card contributions can be made by calling the hospital at 303-366-2639 or you can send a check to:

VCA Alameda East Veterinary Hospital
9770 East Alameda Avenue
Denver, Colorado 80247

Please mention Joey's name, as well as the name of his companions, Sally and Mel Almendares. Their client ID number, which I'm told will expedite the process, is 121374.

If you're unable to contribute but know of any organizations that help provide relief for families on fixed incomes who have suffered the loss of an animal companion and the high veterinary bills, please share those with me as well so that I can pass them along to Sally and her family.

Thank you for your support and kindness.