Particulars

My mentor in college, Tim Muskat––a brilliant man whose company and inspiration I miss––often reminded those of us who he not only called students, but friends, that it is important to keep a list of particulars. The saying goes that the devil is in the details, but I beg to differ; it's God––if there is one––who has taken up residency in the minutiae of our lives. Everything is beautiful and magnificence can be found in the smallest of places.

And so begins my list of particulars.

Amid the browning and drying leaves which people are so anxious to clear away or stuff into noxious jack-o-lantern-shaped garbage bags, I spied a single, glorious red leaf, a deep red, as if it had lived all its green and treetop-bound days just to turn this shade and find a soft resting place on the bones of its brethren down below.

The beautiful, lavender-scented letter I received today from my friend David, who writes from the Shire-like Midwest. It ended with the line, "The message is not so cryptic, after all, if only one endeavors to learn the language."

The ladybug which landed on my wrist this afternoon, took its time crawling across my knuckle, looked up at me and flew away.

The way Duncan pops the squeaker in his Buddy when he's trying to get my attention.

The scent of grilling burgers on a patio as you walk by just as the sun has set and the sky is turning indigo.

The sound of ice rattling in the freezer ice-maker as it drops into the bucket.

My sister's catch-phrase: "Right on." She doesn't know it, but her indiscriminate use of it is indicative of her laid-back, "to each his own" attitude. She's far less judgmental than she gives herself credit for.

The long, mottled white cloud that cut across the horizon last night on my walk with Duncan. The sky above it was heavy and blue, but the sky below it was pink and yellow and the mountains under that were nothing but sharp black silhouettes. That single cloud stretched for miles and appeared as though someone had torn the edge of the edge and pasted two different pictures together, dark sandwiching the light.

The sound of snow falling late at night.

Shelves full of books, some of the pages dog-eared to mark favorite passages.

The soft weight of a cat curling on the small of your back while you sleep.

Tetherball

"Feelin' Good" by Nina Simone

Standing watch while your bread toasts, waiting for that moment when it springs up and you can spread the peanut butter so that it gets warm and melts.

Japanese hanging lanterns

The final line of The Great Gatsby: "Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter–tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... and one fine morning– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back carelessly into the past."

Homeland Security

Yesterday, shortly after arriving at work, I somehow managed to convince myself that I'd left the front burner on and that the tea kettle was slowly melting, would catch fire and Ken I would be summoned home to find a smoldering pile of ash and cinder, and also a quite few angry-looking neighbors.

I do this; I turn insanely obsessive-compulsive for a few weeks every couple of years. In Chicago I'd drive halfway to work, decide I'd left the coffeepot or the iron on, or that the windows were open and someone would break into the house, before I consciously knew what I was doing, I'd flip a U-turn and drive 30 minutes back home only to discover the coffeepot and iron off and our two golden retrievers, Ashley and Nikki, sitting up in the closed windows watching me and loving me despite my obvious mental illness. I have no idea if other people do this (please fess up if so!), and would love to know that I'm not too far outside the realm of normal mania.

Amber was in the middle of telling an endless and boring story about several other people we work with when I thought, I don't remember turning the kettle off. On and on she went, who said what to whom and what she thought about the whole situation. I bet the burner is red and smoking even as I sit and listen to this inane story, I told myself. I know my eyes kind of glazed over and Amber's voice turned into the buzzing of a nasty florescent bulb. I bet the kettle is made with lead paint. I bet it comes from China. The cats are running wild, trying to dodge the toxic fumes. Those damn Chinese are at it again, trying to kill our pets. Amberamberamber in the background. She's going to Hawaii for two weeks just as my corner of the world is turning cold and brown. I don't have to listen to her. In five days she'll be sitting on a beach surrounded by palm trees and surf boards. Screw her! Duncan is probably scratching at the door, whimpering for help, unable to understand why his papa would allow this to happen to him, allow the Chinese-lead-based-tea-kettle industry to tear our family apart. Something must be done.

"I'm sorry," I cut Amber off and stand up. "I'm pretty sure I turned my stove off but I need to check. I'm going home. It's insanely OCD, I know, but I'll make myself sick if I don't go now."

Amber has seen me sick, has seen me manic and hopped up on Wellbutrin, and she's my friend, which means she knows better than to question me when I get like this. "Okay, go home," she says, and instantly her voice ceases to sound like the voicees of grown-up in Charlie Brown cartoons.

And then I'm off, driving the eight minutes it takes to get home. I imagine coming across the burning mass of my building, firetrucks and onlookers gathered around, their shapes coming and going amid the dark smoke. Briefly I envision myself leaping selflessly into the flames to rescue our chillins, as we call them, our three cats and Duncan. Would The Post cover the story? What about The Rocky Mountain News? Will there be an outpouring of support for me in my loss and grief? Will Oprah ask me on?

Thankfully the building is exactly as I left it 45 minutes earlier, quiet and almost stately looking with the sun shining on the upper floors. The grass is wet and the sky is high and blue and it's a perfect Autumn morning in every way. A Hollywood set designer could not have placed the leaves more perfectly on the trees and at the base of their trunks. Someone jogs by, and then a woman with her baby stroller pushes past.

Ah, life is good, I almost think, and then, Maybe the Chinese have devised a way to make these lead-ridden tea kettles simmer a long time before they burst into flame and spray kettle shrapnel and cinders of chamomile tea leaves every which way. I better check.

So I unlock the door and step inside. The cats are in conference in the middle of the living room looking guilty and shocked to see me as if they've been planning an attack. Pip scampers away, leaving Winnie and Olive to cover. Winnie turns her back and begins grooming her paws nonchalantly. Olive flashes her best baby eyes at me as I move inside toward the kitchen.

Duncan does not appear, which is most unusual.

The first thing I do is check the burner. It's off. The kettle is still warm from my Egyptian Licorice tea so I move it to the back burner, scan all the knobs and tell myself they're all off. Satisfied, I inspect the coffeepot. The kitchen is all clear. I have successfully averted another attack by the Chinese.

But still no Dunc.

I find him in the bedroom, his Buddy tucked under his chin, resting peacefully on my pillows, eyes closed and smiling. He doesn't move. I don't know if he even really knows I was there.
How's that for Homeland Security?!

Happy Birthday

My mother is the grandmother she always wanted to be. Although I don't have children for her to dote on, she's done a number on Winnie and Pip, Olive and finally Duncan. As a good grandma I don't think she'd ever pick favorites, but I imagine she's particularly fond of Dunc. It's her job to spoil him as only a grandmother can, and that means sneaking him treats and allowing him to get away with all sorts of things he can't get away with when his papa and dad are around. Ken and I had worked hard at training him to stay off the counter and not beg for food, and Duncan did a pretty good job of it until his first Christmas when my mother couldn't help but give him a heaping bowl of turkey and stuffing with gravy and all sorts of other goodies. From that moment on he's been a handful. Although he won't take food off your plate while you eat, he will stare you down and make it extremely uncomfortable for you to finish a meal. In fact, I don't think I've eaten a single dinner in the past three years without telling him to stop staring at me.

Grandma is already looking forward to Christmas when we drive home to Idaho and she gets to indulge him again.

Today is her birthday and although he's not able to be there with her, he did want to share his Buddy.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

Sports Night Revisited: Kickball!

Kickball! Now there's a sport I can get on board with!

For the last three nights the baseball fields at the park have been taken over by a much merrier band of athletes who play Kickball. At first I couldn't quite believe it so Duncan and I stopped and watched. I looked around to see if perhaps someone was filming something, if maybe I was part of an elaborate prank, but it turned out to be the real thing. I hadn't thought of kickball since the sixth grade and didn't even know people actually played it.

The fields at Clement Park have been overrun with baseball players since before we moved in July and that part of me that was traumatized by sports decades ago always appears and feels small and inadequate whenever we walk past the quad of baseball diamonds. The players are exactly as I remember them from high school, jockish, brutish, sometimes older and a little wider around the middle and most unappealing in their ridiculous baseball pants, but others–the young ones–look as if they've stepped right out of my worst PE flashbacks, circa 1986.

But not the kickballers! They're wonderful! Saturday night two different games were going on in the same baseball diamond and Duncan and I had to stop and watch them. Duncan normally doesn't like to stand too long in one place, unless it's to choose the location on which he wants to do his business, and even then he doesn't really stand so much as turn in slow circles, nose to the ground looking for that single, perfect 4" X 4" spot in all the world that's good enough. But even Duncan seemed entranced by the games going on. Or maybe it was just the big red, rubber balls bouncy willy-nilly before his eyes. I myself couldn't look away from the players, who were tall and short, fat and skinny, young and old, jock-types and nerd types. It was the true American Melting Pot, and even better was the fact that they all wore goofy hats and costumes–enormous yellow afro wigs and hats with wings and horns, cowboy hats, hockey masks, clown hats, cat-in-the-hat hats, capes and boots. It was like a league of bizarre super heroes at a company picnic. And they all cheered for each other, even the opposing team. It was brilliant and even though it probably won't happen, I really want to sign up next year. I'd ask if Duncan could join too, but I imagine they might have rules about slobbering on the ball, or running away with it and not coming back.

We'll have to see.

One More Thing

I want to say a big THANK YOU to my friend Kelly who designed my new banner. She took an ordinary picture and turned it into something that looks better than I could've imagined. One of my oldest friends, Kelly works as a graphic designer in Eugene, Oregon and is busy setting up her own business. You can visit her at Wee Tree Creations or check out her blog, Property of Kelly. I think each and every one of you should visit, order one of her cards and send it to me to let me know you like the new banner.

Wet Dog Weekend and Beyond

It was a gray, wet weekend and both Duncan and I are grateful it's passed, Duncan because once again he gets nice long walks through the park, rolls on the grass and the exhilaration of hunting squirrels, and me, because as much as I like looking at the rain and walking through it, and whistling Autumny songs into the wind, I hate damp shoes and socks. My wonderful dog tromps through all sorts of muck at the park (especially after they started draining the lake and flooding the back side near the pavilion) and doesn't think twice about it. My pant cuffs get a little wet and I can't get comfortable for hours. Rain in my face and hair, even down my shirt is fine; it's wet shoes I can't stand. Duncan comes home wet and he couldn't be happier. Being wet means being in need of extra love, and that means jumping on the couch to cuddle and offering to help fold laundry fresh from the drier and rolling across clean floors, which is fine because as Ambrose Bierce says, "The most affectionate creature in the world is a wet dog." But now that Autumn is finally accepting my challenge and giving us a run for our money, I've started worrying about wet shoes and snow drifts and ice on Bowles. I worry about how dark it's getting and Duncan being disappointed in me for not taking him out in the sunshine and throwing the ball across the green fields. But perhaps I worry too much. Duncan isn't thinking about tomorrow or the day after that. He's thinking about the cool air and grass we played in tonight, about the squirrel we treed, which cursed at us above the roar of traffic on the street. He's thinking about the Black Forest Venison and Lamb he had for dinner and his Buddy, the stuffed opossum who's face and tail he's chewed off. He's thinking about chasing Pip around the apartment later and maybe seeing if he can talk me into sharing a bite of the banana bread I baked yesterday. I should follow his example and stop worrying about the wet. It's inevitable and there's nothing as fruitless as worrying about that. I'll worry about running out of banana bread instead.

Times Like This

There is something about Sunday, especially rainy Sunday mornings, before the sun has risen and the traffic has picked up, when all the world is quiet and waiting. These are my favorite times when the light is low and gray and the oranges and golds on the trees stand out in rich relief against the matted yellowing grass and darkness of the clouds, when the street is empty and water runs without direction across it, undisturbed and without the constraint of the gutters. Were it not for the gray and the quiet and the soft calls of the geese somewhere above the low clouds, their songs like those of whales, echoing up and fading into some great depth or height, this morning would've been like any other, an ordinary morning with nothing to remember it by. At times like this it would be easy to pretend I was the only person awake to see it, that this moment was created just for me. Or perhaps I was merely part of someone else's moment, someone standing in their window with a cup of tea or coffee warming their hands as they watched the man in his rain slicker out for an early morning walk with his dog through the mists in the park, through the canvas of Autumn and the rain and leaves falling all around them.

Gray Day

It was a stay inside sort of day. A vacuum and dust and scrub the floors day. A rainy day with Miles Davis playing in the background while I waited for my tea to steep. It was a gray day, and not even all the exuberance of the football games going on across the street could convince me otherwise. It was not a Duncan Day. I stayed in my pajamas until almost 2:30 and wasn't the least bit bothered by it. After the apartment was clean, the curtains hung and the cookies made, Ken left for work and Duncan and I stepped outside only briefly to visit with Melissa and Kona who happened upon our backyard by accident. The dogs jump and spun and covered each other is slobber the way only old friends can while Melissa and I made awkward conversation.

"So, this is where you live," she mused.

"Yep. This is it," I said, half gesturing at my patio. I mean, what else was there to say about it. It was Duncan's one big moment all day.

From avoiding the vacuum to hiding under the bed during the thunder and lightning storms he was destined to be miserable all day. He didn't even get a decent walk until late, between rain showers. Perhaps tomorrow we'll make it up to him.

Strategy

"In order to really enjoy a dog, one doesn't merely try to train him to be semi-human. The point of it is to open oneself to the possibility of becoming partly a dog."
(Edward Hoagland)

There's no reasoning with a dog. And once you make a promise to him, you should stick to it. He'll love you either way, but if you break your promise and can sleep through the night, you're a rotten person and shouldn't be allowed to sleep again until you've it made right.

As usual I came home exhausted. It's been a tough two days for me, both personally and professionally, and when that happens all I want to do–if for only an hour–is sleep. Normally I don't allow myself the luxury until after Duncan has had his walk. But tonight my arms felt too long, my feet too heavy and my back slightly broken. It was all I could do to put him on the leash, grab his stick and walk him down to The Glen for a few minutes of potty and playtime.

He knew something was up when we walked right past the gate onto Bowles and crossed the parking lot to our favorite little nook. He actually stopped and looked up at me, his eyebrows raised in that way of his that says he doubts me but is willing to give me a chance to explain myself. This from a dog.

"Dunc," I started, pulling on the leash to get him out of the middle of the road. "Papa is tired. Let's just play here for a while and then we'll go for a walk later, when it's dark the park is all ours." He agreed, begrudgingly, but didn't make it easy on me. We walked down under the trees into the bowl and in one movement I took him off-leash, tossed the stick and ambled up the hill to sit in the spot that overlooks the golf course, the other apartments and the road. Duncan chased after the stick but wouldn't bring it back to me. Instead he plopped himself down twenty yards away and chewed happily on the stick, his eyes never leaving me, insisting that I come to him. You can't play fetch unless you have something to throw so I went to him, retrieved the stick and tossed it again. He merrily sprinted down the hill and back up again, but this time he threw himself down in the spot I'd previously occupied, twenty yards away. Back and forth we went, my dog mocking me and forcing me to chase him and play to his whims rather than the other way around.

After thirty minutes of this we returned home with the promise that we'd go out later and even though I was able to steal an hour of shut-eye, Duncan made his displeasure known; he crawled under the bed and sighed loudly over and over. When the sighing didn't force me up and back outside he resorted to soft little, feathery whines, and then frustrated growls of boredom. When I finally got up and poured myself a vodka and passion fruit juice he forced the issue again by setting up camp in front of the door and stared at his leash. And that's where he stayed for nearly ten minutes, my pouting child, staring at his leash.

When I finally took him out he pranced and trotted victoriously but not quite boastful. He did not rub my defeat in my face. That's what unconditional love really means. I could not reason with him so he reasoned with me, in his own dog-like fashion.

Roll

Sometimes, when your afternoon has turned sour, when the pills you took just to keep yourself sane kick in and make you want to pass out, the best thing for you is not the weepy letter or phone call to a friend, not the bag of chips sitting atop the fridge, or even the re-run of your one guilty pleasure, Project Runway. As every dog knows, sometimes the best thing is to wait until that perfect moment when the sun has set and the sky hasn't decided what color it wants to be, when the temperature drop five degrees as quickly as a zipper, and simply throw yourself on a nice cool patch of grass and roll around in it. Leaves and twigs and half crushed water bottles be damned. Sometimes the best cure-all is a nice roll. It's that simple.

Defending the Glen

After our walk this afternoon–a rather uneventful trip through the park, up Rebel Hill to the memorial and back home–we stopped by Duncan's favorite spot, The Glen. Everything looked the same to me–the curling brown leaves that littered the bottom of the natural bowl in the earth, the bone-white limbs and branches of the Aspens, even the page of newspaper that had blown through and gotten caught in the bars of the gate was still there. But Duncan knew things were different. He had no interest in his tennis ball, dropping it from his mouth right where I'd tossed it. Almost immediately he began making the rounds, scouring the perimeter with his nose, stopping every few feet to sniff, sometimes veering wildly off course as if following an invisible trail, only to retrace his steps and start over. After several minutes of investigating every tree and shrub and post, he began marking, which seemed tedious work, all that squatting and peeing, leg-lifting and peeing, crouching and peeing. When he was finally satisfied he returned to where I sat on the hillside near the spot where he'd accidentally taught himself to fly a few weeks back. He rolled over on his back and let me scratch his belly, but I'd hardly began when a sleek black shape appeared in my peripheral vision, charging down one side of the depression and up the other straight at us. She was a lean lab mix, quite thin and long. I jumped up to grab Duncan, but he met her dead on, leaping into the air, spinning Matrix-style around her and catching her neck under his chin. They huffed and crashed into the leaves and began rolling wildly down the slope. I looked up to see a young woman darting toward me through the trees, a wide smile on her face. "She's okay," she said. "She's just young." I'd frozen on the spot. thinking of the stories I'd heard of dogs mauling other dogs while out on innocent afternoon walks with their owners. It had been on my mind a lot and I'd wondered whether Littleton's unenforced leash laws needed to be addressed– after all, only twenty minutes earlier at the park we'd been charged by a rather large German Shepherd whose owner finally appeared and stopped the beast just as he loomed right over us. I was relieved to see that Duncan and Kona, the newcomer, were not fighting, but had become instant friends instead. His best friend at Stapleton is Maddie, and I wondered for a moment if he thought this narrower and lighter version was his old pal. Melissa, as she introduced herself explained that they'd just moved in and that Kona loved our spot and had become pals with the few other dogs she'd met there. No sooner had she said that than two other racing shapes appeared, a smaller Golden who looked exactly as Duncan did two years ago, color and all, and a matted, yip-yip dog, a "Malty-Poo," Leanne and Deke, her owners described her breed when they appeared. Melissa and I left the dogs to wrestle and romp while we did what I imagine parents do when they meet the parents of their child's friend for the first time. We quickly introduced our dogs (theirs were Sadie and Cinnia) but it was a while before we thought to introduce ourselves. We made small talk for a bit and then just sat and watched the slobbering, leaf-encrusted parade of dogs, Cinnia always at the rear, yapping and snapping at tails and ankles as little dogs are wont to do.

Finally, covered in saliva and exhausted, Duncan appeared at my side, nudged the hand I was holding the leash in, and announced that it was time to leave. His ears and the top of his head were wet and matted, and a thick string of someone's slobber streaked across the top of his head. He looked beat so I hooked him up, waved good-bye to the others and we took our leave. No sooner were we in the door than my tireless dog collapsed in a heap and slept. And I got to sit and do nothing.

Journey

The summer after my second year at Lake Forest, I asked one of my friends, Ned Black, if he wanted to drive home with me. Ned, who was from St. Louis and had never been west of Kansas City, Missouri, was eager to make the trip. I'd provide the gas and pay for our accommodations, and he in turn, would entertain me for the long hours from Chicago's wealthy northern suburbs to southeastern Idaho. We planned the trip for weeks, and when the day finally came, we set off in Cleo, my red, '89 Nissan Sentra. As anxious as I was to put Chicago behind me and return to my familiar desert and mountainous part of the world for three months, I quickly realized that the trip itself could be more enjoyable than the arrival at our destination. Because Ned had never seen a real live mountain I decided we'd take the most scenic route afforded us, traveling across weary Wisconsin and monotonous Minnesota at night, avoiding the unending flatness and methodical scenery of the upper Midwest. There was no way around eastern South Dakota, so we made the most of it, stopping at every giant prairie dog statue and ridiculous tourist trap that populate these vast and empty states. We smoked more marijuana than I care to recount and felt the kind of joy only people in road trip movies seem to experience. We spent an entire day in the Black Hills, visiting Rushmore, Crazy Horse, pulling over to see if we could tap into the power of the universe the Sioux claimed resided there. We spent six hours laying on top of boulders at the base of Devil's Tower (my favorite place in the entire world) listening to the enormous gears inside the earth slowly pushing that pillar of rock up through the surface and out into blue, pine-scented Wyoming sunshine. It took us two days to navigate Jackson Hole, the Tetons and the mind-boggling Teton Mystery baked out of our minds. I drove through Yellowstone, stopping every half a mile to point out buffalo, eagles, moose and elk. But then, on day five I realized I had nothing left to show Ned and turned Cleo's nose toward Pocatello. We pulled into the driveway just after the sun had set, and even though Ned still had three days until he flew home, we both knew the vacation was over. The journey, not the destination, had been the adventure.For the next two days we lounged around, ate junk food and hardly spoke; we spent twelve hours watching a Soap marathon on Comedy Central, and it was with some relief that I finally drove Ned to Salt Lake City, put him on his plane and saw him off.

My walks with Duncan are nothing in comparison to the wild road trips of my youth, but he reminds me every day that it's the journey, not the destination, that matters. This afternoon we walked down Leawood to the elementary school. I was tired and gassy and didn't feel much like being dragged behind a dog. I imagined a nice leisurely stroll that would find us back home before the sun set. Duncan, however, felt compelled to sniff every shrub, every mailbox, every clump of lavender growing at the edge of every driveway. He didn't have to mark his territory but he certainly wanted to explore the option, regardless of how long it took. On the playground at the school he had to inspect the swings and slide, and took a keen interest in the tetherball pole. Regardless of my desire to get home, Duncan was enjoying the place between where we left and where we'd wind up.
It's a good thing to remember, to enjoy the scenery and adventure as you go. Another lesson from my dog.

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.

Indian Summer

The world has done what it likes to do once we find comfort and joy in it–change. This morning it was sunny and bright as I sat in my office, the window open, the blinds drawn, Duncan and the cats following rays of sunshine as they crept slowly across the floor. And then, shortly after Duncan and I returned from our afternoon walk, the skies were overrun with clouds and the rain began to fall, not in sheets, but something stronger than a heavy mist but lighter than a drizzle. By four o'clock it seemed seven and seven seemed midnight. Although the rain has let up, the wind has not and I fear we've not too many leafy days left. The park view out my window will turn from colorful and scenic to barren and desolate. I'm not a fan of Ol' Dame Winter and think her quite the bitch. I could stay in this prolonged Indian Summer forever.

This morning Duncan and I had fun marching through the drainage trough that runs directly behind the apartment, stomping on the leaves and kicking them up. He particularly likes this because he gets to jump and leap and bound and I like it because I try to imagine what he's thinking as the leaves rain down around his face and snapping jaws. Watching my dog is like watching a child discover their hands, or bringing a dear friend to your hometown and seeing it all again, brand new through their eyes. At the same time Duncan must grow tired of my wonder at his wonder. He seemed impatient when I stop mid-walk to snap some photos to add to the most documented Autumn of my life. This afternoon as we stood between the yellowing rows of trees on the island in the middle of Bowles he could hardly sit still while I marveled at the light breaking through the canopy of gold and orange above our heads. I think he knew the rain was coming, that he wouldn't be allowed to sit with me on the couch, that I'd keep him from cuddling on the bed because of his wet dog smell. He was smart enough to spare himself an ire born of my silly desire to stop and gape at the world simply being the world.

Night Walk

Autumn is coming and it's coming fast.

It's been a wonderful week in Denver. The leaves have not fully changed and are still hanging onto the branches, while those that have fallen make wonderful music as they crunch under our feet.

Today was sunny and bright and the air seemed to glow with Autumn. But it was windy and only got more so as the day progressed. By the time we went for our night walk at Clement Park, the clouds had appeared over the Front Range and were moving rapidly eastward. But it was still gorgeous. The sky was vast and brilliant and the stars were out. The wind smelled clean and cool and Duncan and I both stopped several times to tilt our faces into it, close our eyes and imagine we were flying.

I did something I said I wouldn't do. I wore my ear buds and listened to my iPod. I've added more music to my Autumn playlist. If you get a chance to hear them and take a walk among the leaves, I hope you can. They're wonderful.

"Autumn Leaves" (Miles Davis)
"Imagination" (Chet Baker)
"Flamenco Sketches"(Miles Davis)
"Love's Melody" (Django Reinhardt)
"Harvest Moon" (Cassandra Wilson)
"Coffaro's Theme" (Bill Frisell, Ron Miles, Curtis Fowlkes, Eyvind Kang)
"In a Sentimental Mood" (Duke Ellington & John Coltrane)
"Autumn in New York" (Billie Holiday)
"Sliding Down" (Edgar Meyer, Bela Fleck, Mike Marshall)
"Slumber, My Darling" (Edgar Meyer, Yo-Yo Ma, Mark O'Connor)
"Anthem" (Gabriel Yared)
"You Will Be My Ain True Love" (Alison Krauss)
"After the Rain" (John Coltrane)

Post Script: Shout Outs

I'd like to take just a minute to mention a couple of things I've discovered since starting this blog. The first is Red Dog Diary, another blog which chronicles the story of Raja, a Golden Retriever who was diagnosed with bone cancer at the age of 8. Red Dog is the story of his struggle as well as a terrific resource for information about osteosarcoma. Please pay them a visit and watch the trailer for the dogumentary they've been working on.

If he could talk (and believe me, you'll never catch me writing as if he does), Duncan would also want me to mention our latest find, Hero's Pets. Yesterday on our lake walk and shortly after our Bunny Hunt we saw a sign just off the trail that invited us to come on in, so we did. The minute we stepped inside we knew we'd found our new favorite place. In addition to having an incredible selection of organic and eco-friendly foods and treats, the staff were incredibly polite and fun to be around. They even gave Duncan an enormous bag of free samples to take home. This morning he had Timberwolf Organics Black Forest Venison & Lamb. Check out the list of ingredients: venison, rice, lam, salmon, flaxseed, spinach, celery, parsley, blueberries, pears, cinnamon bark, anise seed, cranberries, sunflower seeds, garlic and the list goes on and on. Damn him, he's eating better than us! Duncan has never been one to mow down his food–he eats like a bird–but this morning he polished it off pretty fast and licked the bowl for five minutes. Tonight I think we'll try the Dakota Bison. Hero's has an interesting variety of events coming up (check out the pet communicator!) and a bunch of cool information. We'll definitely be going back!

"Missed it by that much!"

On the northern edge of the lake, where the trail turns away from Clement Park and enters Strip Mall Hell, nestled near a slightly wooded area where the trees are spectacular and the reflected sunlight is blinding, there is a small place between the lake and Hopps Bar and Grill that I refer to as Bunny Bend. This is where Duncan and I always spots a rabbit or two, where his darting senses go into overdrive, and where I am barely able to contain him.

Tonight, as we rounded the curve, after I paused to take a couple of pictures of the colorful shoreline on the opposite bank, Duncan stopped dead, nearly causing me to trip over him.

In the middle of the trail was the prize he'd been seeking, closer than he'd ever imagined. His head dropped low, his ears perked up and he was a hunter as I'd never seen before, not even with his squirrels.


"Slow," I told him, pulling his leash in tight. He took a small step forward, zeroing in.

We stood there nearly ten minutes, watching and waiting. The rabbit did not move. Slowly Duncan edged closer. The people on the patio at Hopps had noticed us and were making jokes and whispering as we moved in. Duncan didn't pay them any attention. He saw nothing else. His thoughts registered only one thing.

And then, after ten long, slow minutes, when we'd finally moved within a few feet of the thing, I leaned down low to Duncan's ear and said, "Get him."

It was over before it had begun. The rabbit knew what we were doing, was even playing along, but the moment Duncan leapt–his leash still firmly wrapped around my hand–the rabbit was gone. And try as he might, Duncan just couldn't follow.

Golden Days

"Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring-- it was peace." (Kundera)

These last days of Autumn are a gift. It was 83 today; the sun was warm, the light was strong and solid, the leaves smelled of rich earth and burning cinnamon and the shadows were long and pointed. All I could think about was getting home and sitting with Duncan at his glen–our new favorite spot–and watching the faraway, nearly transparent clouds move across our small patch of sky. He's happy spending the time rolling back and forth in the leaves on the hill behind me, his legs splayed straight up in the air, snorting like a pig and grinning from ear to ear.

I tell you, if you've never done it, and you're not self-conscious about someone seeing you, give it a try. It feels wonderful, like that's why Autumn and leaves and sunshine and dogs were invented.

Blue

Sometimes you have to look at the world differently, which Duncan forces me to do almost daily. He somehow finds a way to make the even the most mundane things beautiful: the way he devotes all his attention to a single leaf, or the way he turns his face into the wind, closing his eyes and holding the moment until even the breeze itself has passed, or the joyous and awed expression he gets when I scoop up a handful of leaves and rain them down on him.

Today, mid-walk, we stopped, rolled on the grass in one of the fields and stared at the sky. Briefly he let me use his hip as a pillow while we watched the far away faded and cloudless blue behind the trees above us. It meant everything and nothing and for only a moment I got to see the world as Duncan does, vast, exquisite and full of wonder.

This I Believe

So I'm crazy, right? I mean, who else but a crazy person would spend a portion of every night blogging about what he thinks and feels when he's walking his dog? (Let me tell you, though, I'm not half as crazy as the people who post blogs as if their dogs were writing them, or even the people who post comments on some blogs in the imagined baby voices of their pets. I'm extremely normal when compared to those people!)

I've wondered it myself. Why am I doing this? Why do I write about my time with Duncan? Why not just journal? Why spend my time writing this thing that only one, maybe two other people ever look at?

I'll tell you why. I do it because I believe in my dog. Ever since that horrible summer two years ago when I spent every waking moment thinking I was on the verge of a stroke, when Duncan was the only one who was physically there for me, I have believed in the power of my dog. He's led me back to good health and he continually leads me to a more peaceful frame of mind. What he's given me far outweighs what I've given him (okay, aside from The Yarn Debacle of 2006). I believe in my dog. It's that simple.

I'm a fan of podcasts, most of which come from National Public Radio. This afternoon I was listening to a podcast from This I Believe–which I've been listening to for a long time and have been trying to figure out what exactly I believe in–and discovered this man, David Buetow, who believes exactly as I do. I no longer need worry about what I believe in. This guy's done it for me.
Take a listen. You can read the transcript, but trust me, it's much better if you listen to it. And let me know what you think.

Crab Apples and Sunsets

Sometimes you just don't know where the energy is going to come from to make it through the day, to open the door at home and be greeted by the whining and tail wagging, the jumping and wrist clutching. Sometimes you're just not as excited to see your friend as he is to see you, and all you want to do is take off your shoes, throw yourself onto the couch and nap away the rest of the terrible day. But, you find the energy to push into the house, change your clothes, grab the doggy bags and head out on a walk.

Why is it I'm always so surprised to discover I have the energy to take Duncan out, even on the worst of days? Why don't I remember that he's my reward and has so much more to offer than the couch and re-runs of Friends or Will & Grace? How do I forget so easily?

And how is that a nice walk in a new neighborhood, down streets I've never seen, with Duncan leading the way can reinvigorate me like nothing else? I occasionally let him decide where we're going and today he took me some place new, across Bowles, then across Pierce, down a tree-lined side street where crab apples covered the yards and sidewalks and lavender grew in massive clumps beside every mailbox. We walked for well over an hour, turning down more side streets until I hardly knew where we were. I couldn't even hear the traffic. All I knew was the light was getting soft, the clouding sky was turning a beautiful shade of orange and that neither of us was in any hurry to turn back. It was quiet in the way that only older 70's-built neighborhoods can be. Occasionally our walk was interrupted by the barking of a dog from a backyard, or the scampering of a squirrel in the leaves under a corner pine tree, but mostly it was just Duncan and me, the mashed bodies of crab apples littering the lawns, sidewalks and streets, and that beautiful sunset.

It was exactly what I needed, and even though I know I'll forget, I should never doubt my dog again.