Duncaversary Part One: Meet Jake

It's three years today since Ken called me at work and asked, "What do you think about getting a puppy?"

It seems a simple enough question, but in light of everything that's happened since, it's like asking, "What do you think of willfully submitting yourself to financial ruin?"

Of course I got excited, especially after he mentioned the puppy he had in mind was an eight week old male golden retriever. We'd raised two females, Ashley and Nikki, a mother and daughter, when we lived in Chicago and had been dogless for five years. As I pondered the question I thought of the magnet which sits on our fridge, "A house without a dog is not a home." According to it, all our hard work amounted to nothing; we were homeless. Three cats were great but the magnet said nothing about cats! We needed a dog and Ken had stumbled onto one. And better yet, he was free.

I'm not quite sure how it happened, but a breeder in Fort Collins, where Ken was teaching in the Vet Tech program at Front Range Community College, had several puppies she needed to find homes for immediately. She brought the puppies to the school and Ken got excited. He missed his Girls, who'd been left with Ken's brother in Michigan when we moved to Colorado. He wanted a dog, and when I mentioned I wanted a male, he became even more excited. Pirates of the Mississippi, one of Ken's favorite country bands, had a song called "Feed Jake" and Ken wanted to name his next dog after the song. Not being a fan of country music, or the name Jake, I knew I had my work cut out for me.

I've always believed that animals name themselves and have never been a fan of naming pets or children before you've met them. Names are sometimes the first thing we learn about someone and they are powerful things, keys to who we are. It was days before I named Winnie and Pip, and Olive went nameless for weeks; we'd unsuccessfully tried Daisy and Stella, but neither fit. A name has to be perfect, and it has to tell you something about who it belongs to. It never hurts to compile a short-list, however, and with that in mind I went to work, enlisting the help of my friends in the Student Affairs office at ACC. I explained the rules: it had to be a "people name," but it couldn't be a common name, like Joe or Mike; instead it had to be unusual, something respectable yet quirky. Heather took the job very seriously and spent the better part of the day compiling an extensive list of exotic names, only two of which I now remember: Algernon and D'Artagnon.

D'Artagnon? Obviously she didn't get it.

My assistant, Janet, had recently lost her father, a famous Methodist author, D.A. Reily. She'd returned from his funeral in Brazil only the day before and as we were talking about him, I asked her what the D.A. stood for. "Duncan Alistair," she told me, and the second I heard it, I knew it was perfect. What could be better than a Golden Retriever named Duncan?

Ken spent four days of the week in Fort Collins, living with a friend Monday through Thursday, coming home only on the weekends. I waited up for him that night, anxious to meet the puppy. When they pulled up I ran outside to greet them, and there in a box in the back seat was the cutest face I'd ever seen. A terrible traveler from the beginning, he was shaking and covered in saliva; thankfully, Ken had washed the vomit off him before introducing us. I opened the back door and peered in at him.

"Hi there, little guy," I cooed. He cocked his head at me. "Are you a Jake?" I asked, picking him up. "Or are you a Duncan?" And with that he winked right at me. A good solid wink, not a blink, not a twitch or a spasm, but a wink.

Ken was standing behind me. "Duncan," he said aloud. "I like that."

And almost immediately, Ken's dog became mine.

Like it was meant to be.

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.

Greaser

Word came from Chelsea at Hero's Pets that Duncan is in 2nd place in the Halloween costume voting contest. There are still several days of voting left, so think good thoughts for us. He was a real sport about the whole thing, but he didn't like the jacket–it was hard to walk–but he had no problems wearing the goggles. Duncan's a natural. All we need now is the motorcycle and sidecar and we can take our show on the road.

November Dream

So dull and dark are the November days.
The lazy mist high up the evening curled,
And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;
The place we occupy seems all the world.
(John Clare, November)

November will never end, and I don't think even Duncan can keep me from wishing away this unendurable month. We sit in my office, Duncan pining near the window, wondering why his walk came so late and passed so quickly, and I can't keep my thoughts from blue skies and long walks in the heat. Even yesterday, which was still November, seems an eternity ago and lovelier than today.

I left work late and like many others, was shocked to see the sun had set and darkness had taken root; the last of the golden light in the west seemed little more than a dusting across the horizon. I hurried home and didn't even bother changing my clothes before taking Duncan out. The park, which has been filled with junior footballers sine August, was dark and empty and we saw no one, passed no other dogs, couldn't even hear the high school marching band practicing the same songs they've practiced for months while we walked. I felt Rip Van Winkle-ish, as if I'd been asleep a long time but wanted nothing more than to lay my head back down on the pillow. The darkness seemed like water and not even the cold could energize me, nor the restless tug of Duncan pulling ahead of me. We circled once and came back through the gates. A rabbit darted past us but I saw only a white smudge across my field of vision and wouldn't have thought of it again if Duncan hadn't strained on his leash after it.

When I close my eyes I think of the last red leaves on the tree hanging over my patio, which only yesterday seemed safe in the warmth of the sun and the steely blue of a faraway sky. Tonight the leaves are just shadows, dry and brittle, and I can't wait for this November dream to end.

What is Good

November is a good time for visiting, for touching base with old friends and reminding oneself about what is good and strong and important in life before the nights grow longer and the days more pale, before the winds joins in chorus and wash the warmth from the trees and fields and spirits. It is good to take walks in the sunshine, to listen to the calls of the geese and the short yips of the prairie dogs from their squat little burrows. It is good to have a dog in these days, someone who cares not what season it is, but only that you're walking with him in it.

Chautauqua

Yesterday I added a new job to my Must Have job list (which previously included "writer" and "Scenic Overlook Decider"). After hiking through Chautauqua Park with Duncan and Traci
I decided I want to be a Namer of Mountains. Although I'm not sure I could compete with the guys who've been doing it, I'd at least like the opportunity. It won't be easy; I mean look at what they came up with: The Great Smoky Mountains, with their rolling smoky mornings, the Sawtooths, which do indeed look like the giant blade of a saw sticking up from the shore of Alice Lake, and the Tetons. Okay, maybe the Tetons don't exactly look lik giant breasts, but their name does give some insight into the frame of mind of those randy, French trappers who christened them. And then there are the Flatirons, just outside of Boulder (such a pity the best scenes along the Front Range are located in such an annoying little town), which local women named because they looked like the flat part of the irons with which they ironed their clothes. I'm in awe of the namers of things and only wish there was some range or valley or creek I could take a shot at naming.

Our hike was wonderful and Duncan far outperformed Traci and myself. Traci had the double excuses of having only just arrived from Chicago (elevation 579 feet), and being asthmatic (she's so lucky!). I had no excuse whatsoever for my difficulty in breathing or my knees which felt as if they were on the verge of blowing out. Duncan, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. He bounded up the trail to Royal Archway like it was a couple of steps, dragging us behind him. It was a busy trail, but the people were incredibly polite (damn Boulderans!) and we were able to take some nice photos.

We need to do this more often. The sound of the wind blowing through the Ponderosas and the rocky silence of those narrow little switchbacks were amazing. There's a reason I always wanted to live in The West. I just need to remind myself of that every now and then.

Company

This weekend Duncan's Aunt Traci is coming from Chicago for a quick visit. Traci and I met while working at CDW eight years ago and have been friends since. She's a fun person to be around and greatly different from the conservative, very Republican person I first met; now after 8 long years of beating the truth into her, I can actually tolerate being in the same room with her. Traci has made some remarkable changes in her life, all of which were witnessed by her own faithful, four-legged friends, Chloe and Murphy, both of whom are Beagles. If I didn't believe Murphy was Satan's dog, I might give them props for helping turn her into a real, live person. Instead, I'll just have to share the credit with Chloe.

It was because of Traci's arrival tonight (and my compulsive need to clean and clean again before I have guests–thanks, mom– that Duncan got a very short walk this afternoon, a quick whisk around the park and home again, home again, jiggity jig. But Traci suggested we take him for "a hike" tomorrow, which we might just do. It all depends of whether November wants to behave as though it's still October, or if it wants to pull what it pulled today by acting exactly like November.

Either way I doubt Duncan will care.

Red

Typically the passing of October leaves us skinless and showing only the rough bones of November's boughs and branches. But this year our blood is still pumping, red and fragrant as cinnamon stirred into hot cider, red as the blush on a virgin's cheek, red as red was meant to be. Everywhere I turn, every path we take, we are surrounded by the most glorious shades of red, in the shrubs and trees, single glowing leaves hidden among the still-green grass, red in the misted moon, red in the eyes of the jack-o-lanterns that have burned in our windows. Just outside my patio there is the most brilliant bush, a red like none other I've seen, a red that appears only in faerie tales or comic books. On our way to the park, now mostly naked and exposed, we pass several bushes that look as if they've been baked in beets, jellied in cranberries and roasted over a fire of hot peppers. They smell Christmas sweet and their leaves are still strong, still clinging tightly to their delicate branches. They are lost kisses, caught by the wind and blown far off course, snagged in the sticky brittle fingers of Autumn. They are the flattened bodies of ticks grown fat on blood sweetened with the meat of fresh, ripe cherries. Two red guards have taken up their posts outside The Glen, short and fat, they are dwarfs, small and cute, but as serious as a Russian tragedy. One stands at attention, rigid and stern, the other seems to flit as restlessly as a flame.


And my red dog is there to share them with me.

Halloween on Leawood

Duncan and I ventured down to Hero's Pets this evening to participate in their first annual costume contest. Like an idiot I didn't manage to get any pictures but Chelsea assured me she'll send me copies of hers. I'll post them when they come.

When I was a kid Halloween seemed like a throwaway event, something quick and easily forgotten, a one-night-stand holiday, something to tide us over until Christmas. Every now and then people decorated, but mostly with a simple jack-o-lantern and maybe a scarecrow propped up next to the front door. If someone really got into it they'd toss their speakers in the window and play a scary noises–rattling chains, creaking doors, zombie moans, that sort of thing–but that was about it. The rest of the fun was left up to the kids, who congealed into a candy-seeking mass and roamed our neighborhoods long after we were supposed to be in bed. As short-lived as it was, it was our night, which even in the 70's and 80's was nothing compared to what kids did back at the turn of the century, when they actually vandalized property and set fires in the street (see the film, Meet Me in St. Louis, for a great depiction of this) Now days, though, Halloween has become the new Christmas, with all sorts lights–be they string or strobe–and cobwebs, spiders and monsters, lawn ornaments and much more. The kids and their costumes seem the least important part of it. Halloween has become a bizarre "Keeping-up-with-the-Bones'" ritual. The adults have taken over and I'm not quite sure what I think of it. Every year it seems to get worse and the only explanation I have is that the big box marts finally brainwashed the American public into believing they needed to celebrate this way.

That said, I do have to admit that on our walk down Leawood, Duncan and I did stumble upon the most amazing house. Outside of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it. An enormous faux wrought iron fence had been erected along the sidewalk, complete with gargoyle-topped pillars and a heavy chain. The entire yard had been filled with headstones and some looked as though actual graves had been dug under them, with arms and other body parts sticking out of the earth. One of the headstones actually rocked back and forth and a voice came from under it, calling out, "Who's there? Help me! Somebody please, help me!" All sorts of animatronic creatures had been stashed in the trees and under the hedges, with glowing red eyes or wings that flapped. It seems pirates are all the rage, so of course, pirate clad skeletons had been set up, along with pirate flags and treasure chests. Many of the trees were covered in cobwebs and enormous spiders and centipedes crawled along their trunks and branches. Strobes lights flashed along the front steps and ghoulish music, accompanied by the heart-warming sounds of a torture chamber played from some well-hidden stereo system. We sat and stared for several minutes and I think even Duncan was transfixed. Or perhaps he was simply keeping an eye out for rabbits.

But despite all this, we didn't see a single child in costume. Does any of the decor make sense without the kids to stand in awe of it?

Portrait in Leaves

You've got to admit, Duncan and I do know how to pose for a picture.

Soccer Star

I don't know when I got so old. By the time I went to bed last night I felt the full effect of my impact with Duncan at The Glen. When the alarm went off at 6 I knew it was going to be the kind of day spent laying on the couch and doing as little as possible. Duncan, however, unaffected by our collision, thought I'd taken the day off to be with him.

Around noon we did stumble over to the park and Duncan was overjoyed to discover someone had left behind their soccer ball. Hopped up on ibuprofen, I knocked it around a bit for him and he took to it immediately, managing to scoot it along by kicking at it and rolling it against his chest. When he finally realized I didn't have it in me to join in the fun, he plopped down in the grass, more than happy to pose for the camera.

Soccer is not just for Europeans and girls, as my father once claimed. It's for dog's, too.

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.

Starry Night

It was dark and late when I took Duncan to the park. The air, which hadn't been able to decide which temperature it wanted to be, finally settled on cold and our breath led the way. It had been a hazy night and the lights around the lake wore halos, cloudy and orange reflected on the dark surface of the water. I was thinking of how brilliant the sky is on clear winter nights in Pocatello, how I've stood on my mother's driveway late on a Christmas Eve and stared skyward in awe, the earth falling away from me, the night sucking the breath from my chest. I've never witnessed a sky like the one I can see from home. As we climbed the small hill above the lake I looked up knowing I'd see nothing but orange reflected off the haze, but at that moment, for only a few seconds, the mist cleared and I could see the night spread out above me and it took my breath away. We paused on the hill and gazed up at the Big Dipper and the "W" that is Cassiopeia, Queen of the Night, and all that space and time spread between them. I thought of that song by Don McLean, "Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)" and I was glad to be able to share it with Duncan, and even though he does know not the song or the painting, somewhere in his heart he understands the beauty of a moment.

Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer's day,
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul.
Shadows on the hills,
Sketch the trees and the daffodils,
Catch the breeze and the winter chills,
In colors on the snowy linen land.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you,
But still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night,
You took your life, as lovers often do.
But I could have told you, Vincent,
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.

Starry, starry night.
Portraits hung in empty halls,
Frameless head on nameless walls,
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget.
Like the strangers that you've met,
The ragged men in the ragged clothes,
The silver thorn of bloody rose,
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they're not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...

Too Long

a wind has blown the rain away and blown
the sky away and all the leaves away,
and the trees stand. I think i too have known
autumn too long (e.e. cummings)

If only Autumn weren't such a schizophrenic bitch she'd be a much better time. It was warm and perfect all day; the air tasted somehow amber-scented and the light felt musical on my face. My job is far away from any windows and I was only able to steal quick moments on the west lawn of the college, watching the squirrels wrestle in the leaves, fighting over a piece of discarded hamburger bun. Far out in the field a group of friends gathered to play Ultimate Frisbee. As I watched them, all I could think about was getting home and not taking off my shoes, not resting a moment on the bed with the cats, but leashing up Duncan and going for another long walk through the neighborhoods east of Columbine. After last night's embarrassing and aimless wanderings I've felt the need to redeem myself by learning the streets and their strange, wandering routes. Unfortunately, 45 minutes before my weekend began, the skies were invaded by low, dark clouds and a fierce, unfriendly wind picked up which was not at all inviting to someone looking to take a long stroll with his dog. Duncan couldn't have cared less, of course. He only wanted to be outside. I think he knew I wasn't as enthusiastic as himself, which meant he had to prolong the walk by any means he could: inspecting every shrub and tree and bramble along our path, sniffing and rooting on the ground for the most minuscule sticks and twigs, peeing every hundred yards or so. He likes the wind, likes to turn his face into it and lap up whatever scent it brings his way. I, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than to be inside where I could make dinner and dream of a warmer Saturday than tonight would presume.

Lost

I was six years old when my mother finally moved us back to southeast Idaho from Boise. My sister and I had been born in Idaho Falls, but Pocatello was less than an hour away and we looked forward to being able to spend more time with our grandparents and cousins. Our move coincided with my first day of school and even though we only lived a block away from Lewis & Clark Elementary, and even though I'd been a latch-key kid the previous year, my mom insisted I walk from school to The Jolly Daycare Center every day after class let out. The trouble was I could never remember exactly where the damn daycare was located, which was really just the converted basement of Mr. and Mrs. Jolly's home. My mother drove the route from school to the Jolly's several times, and one of my teacher's had arranged to either escort me herself or have an older, wiser third grader show me the way. I was so busy talking about remembering the way to school, with whomever was escorting me, that I never really paid that much attention to the route itself. Plus, the older boy held my hand as he'd been instructed to do and I think some portion of my focus must've gone in that direction. Somehow or another that first week I managed to arrive at the Jolly's front step without ever being aware of quite how I got there. Oh well, I thought. I'm here, no need to worry.

And then week two arrived. I still had no idea how exactly I was supposed to get there and passed my day coloring and learning to count and hoping I presented a reasonable facsimile of the sort of kid who knows how to get from Point A to Point B. It wasn't until class let out and I set off on my own that I got into trouble.

I wasn't all that excited about arriving anyway. Unlike other daycares I attended with my sister, this one was no fun. The Jollys were horrible people who had almost as many children themselves as children they were paid to look after. The Jolly kids, many of them older than myself, were not good people, and treated the rest of us poorly, which somehow escaped the attention of the teachers the Jollys had hired to do their dirty work. At one point I remember being locked in a basement room without a window with thirty other kids. When the lights were turned out we all began to scream and pound on the walls but no one came to our rescue. It seemed like an eternity before someone finally released us, although I will admit, being locked in the dark at the age of six in a very small place with countless kicking and screaming other warm bodies can produce the sensation of a much longer period of time. The Jollys provided barely edible snacks and taught us Mormon Sunday school songs, which even then rubbed me the wrong way. It made perfect sense to me why I was in no hurry to get to daycare: singing "Popcorn Popping on the Apricot Tree" while choking down a piece of dry graham cracker would be too much for anyone.

I never made it to the Jollys on my own. That first day, the one and only time I attempted it I ended up making a wrong turn and found myself on McKinley Avenue, which seemed a large and extremely busy road to my six year old eyes. Up and down the street I wandered and as the panic began to grow I realized I was about to face the kind of situation every first grader had been warned about: I knew I'd have to talk to a stranger, not just talk to one, but approach and strike up the conversation which would surely lead to my death. We'd all seen the reel to reel films of little Jimmy getting into the long, green station wagon driven by the fat, bald man, probably a homosexual, who offered Jimmy candy and other treats. Once Jimmy climbed in, it was a slow fade to black and the police officer climbing the steps to Jimmy's parents front door was explanation enough as to the fate that had befallen that little idiot who'd been seduced by the dark powers of a handful of butterscotch candies. I knew enough to steer clear of passing cars, but I also knew that I'd have to knock on someone's door, which would most likely be the very home where little Jimmy had been taken to spend the last, sugar-high minutes of his short life. The sun was sitting low in the west and I knew I needed help fast. Thoughts of innocent, golden-haired me roaming McKinley Avenue after dark, and every day and night ever afterward, flashed through my brain. God only knew what would become of me.

Hysterical and with tears pouring down my face I stopped on the sidewalk before two houses. There was a momentary dilemma as I tried to decide which one to choose. The one on the right looked like any ordinary home, green siding, a small front yard, a truck parked in the driveway, someone's bike leaning against the mailbox. The house on the left was white, the yard was immaculate, flowers had been planted in nice little rows in narrow little beds all along the property. It smelled of cookies and I could hear a woman singing from somewhere inside. The house on the left seems the obvious choice, right? Wrong! Picking that house would surely equal death! I'd heard the story of Hansel and Gretel enough to know you never pick the good-looking cottage, not unless you're jumping at the opportunity to be fattened up and turned into a gingerbread cookie!

Right it was. Hardly able to see through my tears and gasping for breath, I reached out my small, pale hand and knocked lightly on the door. I could hear someone moving around inside, someone big from the sound of his steps. I backed up and questioned myself. Were trolls easier to escape than witches? At least the witch had been nearly blind and easily fooled by a chicken bone. Trolls could smell children! I was doomed!

But a troll did not open the door. Instead it was a man, probably as old as I am now. He was tall, wore bright blue jeans and a nicely pressed white button-up shirt. He had dark hair, glasses and large, tan hands. When he saw a crying child on his step he knelt down and held the door open as I explained through gasps that I was lost, looking for the Jolly Daycare center and was afraid I'd die alone on the street. I asked if he knew where it was, could he point me in the right direction. He knew exactly where to find it, not five blocks from where he lived; his own children had gone there years before, and he'd be more than happy to take me there himself. But first he wanted to call the Jollys and let them know I'd been located and would be arriving shortly. Everything seemed to be going well–no monsters or witches, no horrible candy-wielding men in station wagons–until he invited me inside. Here was the moment. Did I go inside and face certain death or did I reconcile myself to a lifetime of street-walking? Obviously I chose certain death, but only because it offered a cool glass of water and free ride back to the daycare. After making the call and letting me finish my drink the kindly stranger drove me back to the Jolly's house and explained that I shouldn't knock on strange doors, but if I was ever lost on his street I was to find him. I agreed, and feeling a bit like the returning hero, I walked up the front step where Mrs. Jolly, a horrible woman with a beehive as tall as the temple in downtown Salt Lake, stood waiting. She smiled and waved as the man drove away, but once he was out of sight she grabbed me by the arm, yanked hard and ushered me into the dark room where I sat alone, crying once again, for the next half hour. I was finally released to play outside with the others until my mother arrived to retrieve her children. Mrs. Jolly never told my mom what happened, but once I recounted the harrowing events of the day, my mom went back and confronted her. I never saw that crummy little house with the mistreated children ever again, and to this day I couldn't tell you how to get there.

That was thirty years ago, and although I may have occasionally taken a wrong exit or turned down the wrong street once or twice, I haven't been lost like that since.

Until today.

(My what a long lead-in to the actual story, which, it will turn out, isn't nearly as exciting as you'd suppose)

Duncan and I again skirted the edge of the park, but rather than walk across it, we turned west, crossed Pierce and walked down Leawood toward the elementary school there. It's a nice walk, with the little houses and manicured lawns that often remind me of home. We've walked it two or three times before, but today I just kept going, my thoughts caught up in other things, and before I knew it, the sun had set, the nearly full moon had risen and the warmth of the afternoon had faded. Many of the streets in the area twist and turn and several end in sudden little culdesacs. After nearly two hours I still couldn't find my way out of the inescapable neighborhood, so I started using the moon as my guide. Duncan, who wasn't able to spot the four rabbits he chased without my assistance (I swear, he's got the hunting ability of a carrot), was absolutely no use. If we'd been transported to one of those after-school TV shows about kids lost in the woods with only a pack of food and their trusty dog, we'd be dead long before the kindly park ranger or the wizened, but comical, hermit came to our rescue. Duncan would simply chase rabbits as I pointed them out and I be forced to give him bits of our last scraps of graham cracker as a reward.

I've claimed many times that Duncan has led me to poetry, he's shown me beauty and taught me lessons that I strive to remember every day. He just isn't able to show me the way home. But I still love him. We're just not going anywhere too far without a map.

Lake Dusk

I was feeling a bit lazy tonight, so I drove Duncan down the street to the library. I didn't want to walk him and tie him outside as I've seen other people do with their dogs. I never really thought of it until it was my dog and I couldn't imagine leaving him outside at the mercy of strangers or other dogs without me there to protect him. So we drove and I left him in the car only long enough to run inside to check out some of the books Ruth listed in her comment to my "Inspire Me Sunday" post a few days back. Unfortunately, my library is the worst library in the world and they carried none of the books I was looking for. It seems if you're a member of The Juicy Buns crowd you're good to go, with an unending collection of self-help books and Chick Lit murder mysteries. Or if you're the kind of guy who never moved out of his parent's basement and lives for Star Trek conventions, the Columbine Library has a vast collection of science fiction and fantasy books, but nothing that interested me. I had to dig to find a copy of Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation and Dan Savage's, The Commitment.

After getting my books I took Duncan for a walk around the lake, which is immediately adjacent to the library. It was a lovely evening and I'd never been there after dark. The recent cold has killed off most of the bugs, but the night was warm and smelled wonderful, like lake and Autumn and rich dark earth. It was past the feeding hour so we missed out on the wet slaps of the fish breaking the surface for a succulent fly, and most of the people had vanished inside for dinner or the Rockies game. The lake was mostly ours. And it seemed that even the traffic on Bowles was quieter than usual. Duncan chased two bunnies, although I had to point both of them out to him first. We even stopped by Hero's Pets to say hello to Chelsea and her mother, who dote on my red-headed boy and give him plenty of treats and affection. It's nice to feel part of a neighborhood, a place that rejuvenates with its familiar faces and comfortable nooks. I feel more at home here since I left Stapleton.

They say it's going to be nice for the rest of the week. Here's to hoping they're right. We need more of these quiet walks while the warmth lasts and the colors still adorn the trees.

A Good Stick

As every smart dog knows, the best thing in the world is a stick, a good thick one, about a foot long with some heft to it, one that can be thrown far and makes a nice solid sound when it hits the ground. Nothing with leaves and sharp points, of course. No, the best sticks are naked and smooth as bone, with a hearty earthy tone, a brown suede melting into an elephant-ear gray. Twigs will do in a pinch, sure, but nothing is as grand as a stick accidentally stumbled upon in the course of a walk. It's got to be the kind of stick that begs to be thrown, needs to gnawed upon–with maybe a small knot or two thrown in, just to really work the jaw. It has enough give to crunch between the teeth with a nice brittle snap but is sturdy enough to bounce without breaking when it crashes back to earth. A stick like that is why dogs–real dogs– evolved in the first place. Without them we'd be stuck with showy little rat-like things that yip and sit on our laps. A dog like that is practically a hamster and hamsters chew on cedar chips, not sticks.

Of course there comes a point in every dog's life when not even a stick is good enough. When that happens there's only one place left to go–up. And what's above a stick?


Why, the whole damn branch, of course.

After the Snow

As expected, our snow didn't last. Except on rare occasions, it rarely does here in Denver. Most of it was gone by this morning. However, as Duncan and I took our walk earlier this evening, some remnants still remained. Across the street at the park someone had built an elaborate series of snow forts which Duncan and I were able to crawl through. Despite its sagging foundations and breached walls, there was enough smooth snow left at its base that he was able to do his favorite thing, which is roll around in it and snort it up. By the time he was done he was covered in leaves, thoroughly wet and tiny balls of ice had collected near his ears and in the long hair at his tail. Satisfied with himself he turned his attention back to the fort and claimed it as his own, and in true dog fashion, rather than mark it with a flag, he simply chose a nice solid corner and lifted his leg.

On the way back home we stopped by the snowman that someone had put up at the height of Sunday's storm. When we walked by yesterday, he froze when he caught sight of it with its bulbous eyes made of the two halves of an old, nearly green potato and the thin, orange point of a baby carrot that had been slapped on in place of a nose. It was only with great coaxing that I got him to approach it but once I did, I couldn't tear him away. It was hardly taller than him but he circled it slowly, cautiously sniffing all around it, hesitant to get too close. Every now and then he'd pause and look up at me, cocking his head in that quizzical manner of his, as if to ask what such a small child was doing left unattended out in the cold. Today he was much more confident around the thing, but then it was even smaller than it had been yesterday. The potatoes had fallen off its face and I think a squirrel had probably taken care of the nose. It looked more like snow poop than anything else, which probably accounts for Duncan's nonchalance at attending to the rest of his business, practically on top of it.

First Snow

It started early and suddenly, which is, I think, the best way to start. Duncan, in the window watching a squirrel slink along the edge of the fence from one tree to the next, noticed it first. My rooibos had barely started to steep in my purple mug. From the kitchen the kettle was still whining the last of its whistle and the light outside hadn't turned quite whole. There was something hollow about the morning and the air was still and quiet.

And then the sky broke and spilled beans of bone onto the tips of the tallest blades of grass, caught on the red leaves and hung in the air like meandering moth dreams.

Duncan is never happier than in the snow, except perhaps when he's sprawled on a lush greenery in the sunshine, or when he turns his face into the wind and rain and tastes the memories of Spring, or when he plays with the sound and drum-music of leaves crushing under his padded feet. I could not deny him so we went out into it, me still in pajamas and a sweatshirt, the hood pulled over my head. He sniffed tentatively and then something kicked in, some scent which triggered a memory he'd misplaced in the daze of Summer, and he ran and ran, circles around me and figure-eights between where I stood and the tree which guards our patio. He never lifted his nose as he went, an addict snorting the season and dancing in the high it brought.

His joy at all I take for granted is glorious.


The snow hides nothing,
keeps no secrets, will not lie;
Time written on bone.
-First Snow-

Inspire Me Sunday

Last night after fumbling through the channels and finally settling on my latest Netflix arrival, Extras, I decided I needed something to read. I've recently finished Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, by David Sedaris and The Making of the African Queen, by Katharine Hepburn and wanted something new, something to inspire me. I thumbed through several books in my collection, most of which I've read and remembered, and some I didn't remember but must've read because of the copious notes I left behind in the margins. Nothing got my attention and as Duncan watched me go through volume after volume, he cocked his head when I said, "I need something to inspire me."

And so, to you, dear reader, I ask, what have you read that opened your eyes, struck you as beautiful and touched your heart? I have recently acquired my first library card in 12 years, and am looking for something new, something old, something powerful, something beautiful. Send me poetry, prose and essays. I want a list of things that you'd like to share, things that will carry me through the coming winter and warm me through and through.

Mask

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots
may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on
the feelings, as now in October. (Nathaniel Hawthorne)

The last of Summer's days and not a moment of it to be wasted. Thankfully Duncan woke me early, and while he dined on venison and lamb I sipped a cup of tea and watched the cats play in the sunlight streaming onto the floor at the foot of my desk. The plants, after our long, dark and northward-facing year at The Breakers, have erupted in greenery. My avocado tree had doubled in width and the canopy of leaves and sprouts at its top remind me of a jester's hat. The rubber plant in the front room, after years of looking like a wrestler, short and squat, wide but sturdy, has hit a growth spurt that I marvel at nearly every day. Where only three months ago my spider plant resembled a Daddy Long Legs, it now looks–if not quite like a tarantula– wolf-ish at the least. This office where I keep my computer and books has blossomed with greenery even as the world on the other side of the glass has oranged and browned.

Once tea and breakfast were taken care of, I dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and Duncan and I left for the park. We skirted its edge, cut across the library lawn and made for the lake. The weekend and morning lake-goers seem a much more diverse and casual bunch than those that ring its shore in the evenings after work. Were it not for the color of the leaves, it would've seemed a perfect June morning with close blue skies and sun warming my face and neck. We found one perfect tree made of honey and gold and light and sat under it for quite a while, enjoying the smell of Autumn and the dream of Summer. It was the best of both worlds. Neither of us wanted to go inside so once we circuited the lake we made for The Glen, where Autumn has definitely taken its toll: the trees look abused in their nakedness, their bone-branches jutting and pale, their clothing ripped and forgotten, litter on the ground at their feet. Duncan made the most of it, though. He seems to love the sound of the leaves under his feet almost as much as he loves it when I scoop them into my hands and rain them down around his head. He jumped and ran and spun in the air as if knowing that tomorrow brings us wet and cold and wind...and maybe something more. Not that he'll mind; he loves all the seasons equally.

October is a chameleon, playing us with promises of sunshine one minute, punishing us with cold and damp the next. I know better than to trust her. There is green before our eyes, and magnificent light from above and below but just behind it and rushing all around it, just out of reach are drops of gold and the harvest breath of the wind. Look carefully and you'll see it.