Chatfield

Duncan was not happy with me this morning. After his Big Day of Adventure he'd decided that staying at home with the cats and lounging across the bed was no longer his style. No, he'd tasted the high life with Aunt Sarah, who, on Sunday took us to Chatfield, the most glorious dog park in the world and followed that up with an afternoon of fun and games in her backyard. He fully expected today would contain more of the same. But as I prepared to leave for work, without filling the doggy day-out bag I'd packed the morning before, he figured it out pretty fast. Our typical morning ends with Duncan sitting in front of the door to see me off, followed by a mad dash to the bedroom window where he watches me climb into the car and drive away. This morning, however, when it became obvious he would resume his old life, he pouted, hid under the bed and refused to even peek out to see me go.

Upon my return home this afternoon I decided he deserved another romp at Chatfield and so we packed up, got into the car and drove ten minutes to what must surely be Denver's Doggy Disneyland, a vast expanse of open space, forest, and scenic trails punctuated by the Platte River, several large ponds and the reservoir. When Dunc realized where I was taking him he had to bite the seatbelt to keep from whimpering in joy. And once we were there, there was no containing him. He dragged me down the trail and almost before we'd hit the first pond he was soaking wet.

Now remember, Duncan has never been the kind of dog who enjoys the water.

At all.

No, sir, not one bit.

I guess he got over it. At some point he decided he'd much rather swim than walk and so while I strolled the path through the woods that spring up all around, Duncan followed beside me, paddling as though he's done it every day of his life. There was nothing I could say to get him to join me on land, until we met up with Jo and her two dogs, Shelby, a Black Lab she rescued and rehabilitated, and Lady, another Golden, who is just as dark and just as sweet as Duncan. Duncan decided they were his new best friends and spent much of the next hour racing for the ball Jo and I kept tossing far out into the water. Lady tended to stay on the shore, running up and down to greet new dogs, occasionally wading out a bit, but not going too far. Jo was an easy person to talk to, friendly and funny, and I look forward to running into her again.

But finally it was time to leave. There was a convention downtown (you may have heard something about it and have hopefully been tuning in!) that needed watching and the sun was beginning to set. We said our farewells and while I followed the path around the other side of the pond, Duncan paddled along beside me, only getting out of the water once it was clear there was no other place to go.

He reluctantly joined me on land and despite much whining and resistance, and with one last long look back, he climbed into the car, willing to return to his bland life among the cats and our meager jungle of spider plants, avocado and dragon trees, but only on the condition that we return again as soon as possible.


It's a promise I intend to keep.

Home

There are two kinds of families in this world, the family we are born into and the family we make for ourselves once we strike out on our own. I have spent much of my time in Denver telling myself that my first family is the best I could have hoped for and that the one I began building all the way back in kindergarten with my friend, Karren, and up through high school and college was good enough, that it was too much work to develop friendships that are as strong and good and loving as the ones I already have. But I was wrong.

Andy and Sarah have invited me into their family, included me in weekend gatherings and special events. Today they watched over and cared for Duncan, fell in love with him like I love him, assuaged my fears and anxiety about leaving him with them, sent me pictures of him playing throughout the day, and simply put, have become some of the best damn people I know. It is a testament to their kindness and open-hearts that when I slipped into their home to pick up Duncan after work that he didn't even notice me, and once he did he didn't seem too overly excited at my presence. He had the time of his life today, playing with Kahlua and the kids, running wild in their backyard, begging at their table. Admittedly, it was a bit disappointing but after only ten minutes on their patio I understood how comfortable and happy he must have felt all day. Before I knew what was happening I was tossing a football with their son, something I have never done in my life and wasn't quite sure how to do, playing keep-away from the dogs, laughing and jumping and feeling perfectly at home. I am more truly myself with them than I am with just about anyone else I've met since Ken and I left Illinois.

The unexpected hour or two I spent with them after work was wonderful and as Duncan began to wind down, looking at me in that way he has, as if to say, "Hey, isn't there something focused entirely around me that you should be doing?" I found myself not wanting to leave. I wanted to stay and play and laugh as I do now when I am in the presence of my other two families. And so I stepped back for a moment and just watched them be what they are, human and joyous, and with a love for each other and life so strong that the occasional frailty of family doesn't even matter. I am privileged and lucky to have found them and grateful for far more than the fact that they tended to Duncan today.

Away

Nine years ago, when we first moved to Denver, I had the unfortunate experience of working, briefly, at a child care center and adopting the name Mister Curt. I was only there three or four months, and although I loved my classroom of four-year olds, it was a grueling job and the organization was one of the worst I've ever worked for. It was easy to make the decision to leave, but difficult to leave the children, many of whom I still wonder about. I took many memories away with me, but the thing I remember most was the look in their parents' eyes when they left them with me the very first time. All I could do was reassure them that I'd keep their children safe, make them laugh, impart a bit of wisdom and see to it they left looking forward to returning. And many times, as they walked away, I'd see them peek in the windows one last time trying hard not to press their faces against the glass as they wiped tears from their eyes. Those moments were beautiful and although I said I understood, I don't know that I really did.

Tomorrow is a big day for Duncan and me. Because our apartment is being painted he doesn't get to stay home so I've arranged for my friends Sarah and Andy to take him for the day. It doesn't sound like that big a deal, but, with the exception of Ken and my mother, I've never left Duncan with anyone else. I took him to their home last night so I could get a general sense of how he'd feel being there, to see how he and Kahlua, their dog, would get along and to spend time with their kids, who all loved him on sight, and of course, Duncan loved all the attention. Sarah and Andy were kind to me, but laughed at my nervousness and the impending separation anxiety which will no doubt hit me hard tomorrow morning when I drop him off and drive away, leaving Duncan panting and whining in their window. Sarah reassured me that I can call and check on him throughout the day, but I know it won't be enough. I'll worry for him and worry for them, fretting over whether he's chewing on toys or digging holes or peeing inside (none of which he does). I'll worry that someone has left the gate open and that he's wandering the streets unsure of which direction to go. It's in my nature and there just ain't enough Xanex in the world to make that go away.

I do know that our walk tomorrow will be all the more precious for the time apart, both of us out of our elements. Crazy, I know, but even craziness matters.

Think good thoughts for us. And hope that they keep him safe, make him laugh and leave him with a desire to return.

Dear Ken

Don't worry about the fish. I'm taking care of them. Yes, it was Thursday before I remembered to do so and you'd left Tuesday morning, but everything is under control now, I promise. Of course they didn't eat Friday because when I reached for that bright yellow bottle of flakes we keep at the top of the aquarium I discovered it empty and didn't remember to run to the store until Saturday. Actually, because it was one-hundred degrees yesterday I didn't leave the apartment until eight, after had it cooled down and I was on my way to Andy and Sarah's for what seems to have turned into our weekly Saturday BBQ. Technically, though, I guess I didn't feed them until Sunday because I didn't get home last night until after midnight. But I promise, really, that I've been taking care of the fish. I mean, they're right there by the front door––I'd have to be an idiot to miss them.

Do you remember when we first met and I was listening to a lot of Phish? That was as close as I ever came to The Dead, who I never really cared for even though all my closest friends were deeply moved by their music and the experience of seeing them perform live. I never "got it" so I listened to Phish instead, which was like Dead-Lite, but even they fell by the wayside as the years passed and now there are only a few songs which remain in rotation on my iPod. One of them, "Lengthwise," has become my morning earworm, the song which begins running through my head the moment I open my eyes. It's a simple song, comprised of a single line repeated five or six times with the sound of a ticking clock and the heavy breathing of someone sleeping running softly under it.

"When you're there I sleep lengthwise, and when you're gone I sleep diagonal in my bed."

I have slept diagonal every night since you've been gone. Thankfully the chilluns have been there for me. They stopped sleeping with us back in June when it really started warming up, but they don't seem to like the idea of me sleeping alone and so they've rallied around their papa. Winnie has assumed her post on my hip, or the small of my back when I roll over onto my belly. Olive has moved from your pile of pillows to mine, where she perches above my head, a single paw outstretched and resting against my face all night, just to be sure of me, or rather, for me to be sure of her. Pip has taken to curling up under my arm, making a nice snug little crook between my ribs and my armpit. It's his new anesthesia position, for once he assumes it, I am asleep in bed or napping on the couch within minutes. Even Dunc, who hasn't touched the top of the bed in over a month, has taken to sleeping with me, at the foot of the bed in the long triangle shape leftover on your side after I cuddle with your pillow. He, too, reaches out, but rather than a paw, he rests his chin against my calf. The fish tend to stay in the tank, which is fine with me for I'd quickly grow tired of rescuing them from the cats.

I don't sleep well when you're gone. I don't even eat well, which I don't mind so much, but the sleeping is driving me crazy. Much to the disapproval of all assembled I toss and turn which requires a lot of quick thinking on the part of Winnie, who lifts herself off of me and twinkle-toes across my back until I settle down. Duncan, however, seems to be benefiting from your absence. When I can't sleep I take him out, sometimes just down to the end of the yard but also to the park, which is nice and cool and damp, and very quiet on the far side away from the late-night traffic on Bowles. Every now and then we pass other insomniacs, or the occasional teenage couple who have no where else to go, but mostly we have it all to ourselves, which reminds me of winter, which seems far away but isn't really. Last night we watched the moon, as white as bleached bone, or whiter than that really. And there was Jupiter not far away from her, the biggest point of light in the sky, bright and enormous and as magical as a planet can be. I felt safe under them, with Duncan at my side, our tracks through the grass behind us illuminated like the scales of a fish who rests on the surface of a night lake. I wondered if you were awake, standing on the big porch at your mother's house, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the big Northern Michigan sky, which is also the big Colorado sky, only an hour ahead. I wondered if you knew Jupiter for what it was or if it was just a very bright star to be wished upon. And if you did wish on it I hope your wish comes true. That's what I wished for.

And so we came home, the cats gathering around me on the bed as I pulled your pillow close so I could smell you and arranged myself diagonally as Dunc settled near my feet. I hope you are sleeping more peacefully than I am and I hope that Duncan meets you in your dreams, his tail wagging just as furiously as when you come home each night, his ball clutched in his mouth ready to be tossed. Those are my favorite dreams. I wonder if they're yours, too?

Hurry home. You're missed, especially by the fish, who are doing well. I promise.

Curt

Days Gone By

"I'm trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
Its only life after all."
("Closer to Fine" Indigo Girls)

I feel blessed and lucky. After a wonderful night with my friends, Andy and Sarah and their family, a night of hanging out on the patio, laughing and sharing stories, making fun of each other and people we know, drinking beer and eating grilled chicken and some mighty fine potatoes, I drove home, the windows down, the cool night air blowing through my hair, a cigarette clenched between my lips and sang along to the Indigo Girls. With the smell of the Russian Olives so much sweeter and clearer in the darkness and empty streets, I felt as if I'd somehow made my way back to those wonderful and free Summers of Days Gone By, before all my friends had children and we could stay up drinking and smoking pot until all hours of the night, when it didn't matter how much sleep we got because we were young and had untold energy and no fear of anything. It was a feeling I knew wouldn't last, but the true joy of it was that I got to come home and walk with Duncan through the park, dodging sprinklers, watching the constellations turn slowly above us and the planes fly in from the southeast as they circled around the city before banking north and heading in the direction of the airport, making their own changing constellations as they moved. Duncan was happy to see me and I was happier than I thought I would be as a grown-up, the memory of Summers Past still fresh in my mind.

Brushed and Boxed

At times it seems–especially on Sunday afternoons–that my job in the park is more than just The Walker of Duncan; sometimes–quite often, actually–I also assume the role of trash collector, picking up after all the morons who gather to watch the kids play soccer and football, or the thugs who inhabit the skate park who can't be bothered to toss their cans of Red Bull or beer into the garbage bins which the city of Littleton has been kind enough to supply in plenty. The grounds of the park are quite littered Sunday afternoons, and being the sort of person who enjoys a clean park, and does not like seeing his dog root around in fast food wrappers or attempt to gnaw discarded water bottles, I do the right thing by picking them up and tossing them away.

This Sunday Duncan and I came to the park, not only for our walk, but to toss out a rather large accumulation of hair we collected over the weekend. I awoke Saturday morning and decided Duncan was in need of a rather lengthy brushing, and by the time I finished nearly two hours later, we'd amassed a wiggish-looking thing the size and shape of a small dog. I've heard of a woman in the area who spins her own yarn out of dog hair and wondered, briefly, if perhaps she could put it to good use, but then realized if I did such a thing I'd find myself holding onto a rather large bag of hair months from now. Instead I decided to do what we've done for years, which is gather it up and take it outside to toss here and there for the birds and squirrels to use for their nests.

It was with this mission in mind that we set off. The park was mostly deserted, except for the refuse which had been left behind from this morning's various athletic events. In one hand I carried a hair-laden bag which I dipped into every now and then and spread on the ground around me and which was quickly dispersed by a nice warm breeze. My other hand was occupied with the task of collecting bottles, wrappers and the occasional sock, which were all tossed away. By the time my supply of hair ran dry we found ourselves quite near the high school, and still smarting from last week's adventure, we made to cross Bowles and enter, once again, the inescapable neighborhood. Just as we were about to do this, however, I spotted, on the ground, not ten feet from the parking lot, a large, but empty box of Trojans. I scooped it up, threw it away and crossed the street.

Our walk down Fair Street was pleasant and uneventful. We turned onto Marshall which somehow becomes Lamar, which deposited us onto Leawood, not far from the school. We turned west, headed back up the hill and came out on the corner of Bowles and Pierce, directly across from the entrance to our apartment building. As we once again cut across the park and prepared to return home I glanced down and discovered a second, completely full black and gold box of Trojans, Magnum XL. I scooped it up, and not having a garbage can nearby, put it into my pocket until I could toss it in the trash at home. We crossed the street, and because the afternoon was still so lovely, decided to venture into The Glen for a last romp in the leaves and setting sun.

I'd forgotten to bring Duncan's stick or his ball, so we milled around until Kona appeared out of nowhere and commenced to wrestle with Duncan amid the brown leafy debris that fills the bottom of natural indentation in which we stood. Melissa, Kona's mom, soon joined us, and while the kids wrestled and chased and rolled around, spraying fountains of froth and foam and wet leaf in every direction, Melissa and I chatted amiably. When we discovered she once worked with my friend Sarah, who's husband I work with at ACC, we hit it right off and soon lost track of what the pups were up to. Before we knew it the sun had set, the air had turned cold and the dogs continued to run insane circles around the perimeter of The Glen, occasionally speeding across the bowl, crashing past us and back up the other side.

"So, what do you have planned tonight?" Melissa asked.

I shrugged. "I'm not sure, My partner is down in The Springs tonight, so I'll probably just lay low." This I said in a way that somehow sounded as if I don't lay low every night. "You know, make dinner, maybe watch a movie. Stay in."

She nodded knowingly and at that second I heard an explosion behind me and turned in time to see Duncan careening wildly down the hill, Kona hot on his heels, both of them on a collision course with me. I grunted once, a sort of "Umph" noise and turned to Melissa just as they struck.

Duncan caught me straight on. I felt my feet fly out from under me, felt myself spread out in the air, long and flat but open wide. I looked down at my chest and actually saw my feet rise up higher than my body. My shoulders did a strange little wiggle as my arms shot out and my hands reached behind me for the ground that was not there. My brain, in an effort to rationalize the experience actually played the sound of a solid strike echoing down the lanes of a bowling alley and I felt as though a bowling pin must when it's knocked crazy by the ball. Melissa, somewhere below me, cried out, and as gravity finally caught me and pulled me back down, I saw her standing between my splayed out feet, my toes just about even with her shoulders. The closer I came to earth, the faster time moved and suddenly I was down, with a crash and another "Umph," this one louder and a bit more forceful.

Duncan froze and cowered, his head low as if he actually had anything to fear. Kona, however, couldn't have been more delighted. She jumped right over me, and as I sat up, she leaned in, sniffed me once and head-butted me right on the middle of my face. Melissa could not help but laugh, although I will give her credit for making the attempt to appear concerned as I climbed to my feet, brushing the leaves from my legs and arms.

"Are you okay," she asked.

"I'm fine," I said, laughing it off.

"Oh," she said, reaching down. "You dropped someth--" and froze.

At my feet was the open box of Trojans, with a seeming endless parade of foil-wrapped condoms spilling out onto the leaves.

Duncan looked up at me, a half amused, half pitiful look on his face. Kona snorted and walked away, satisfied that she'd head-butted me. Melissa did not know what to say.

I played with the possibilities and finally decided that silence was indeed golden.