Wonder Pets & Feathers

My friend Denise, who lived three houses down from us in Stapleton and kept me sane throughout much of my time there, called tonight. We discussed the beautiful feathers she and Martin, Avery, their daughter, and Maddie, their black lab and Duncan's best friend, sent me. She asked about the impending trip and what I thought of it. As I explained my plan I realized I am indeed looking forward to my first solo long-distance drive since getting sick. It feels solid and not only do I have Duncan keeping watch from the backseat, but as each of your feathers roll in, the stronger and more confident I feel.

"Duncan is your Wonder Pet," she said, referring some TV show I'm not familiar with. And seconds later she sent an email with the picture.

He's not a duck, a turtle or a Guinea Pig, but he's a Roo–my Dunkaroo–and everything will be fine.

Eye in the Sky

Tonight is supposed to be the high point of the Geminids Meteor Shower, which runs from December 6th through the 19th. Indeed, last night, while sitting at my desk I witnessed two spectacular shooting stars, almost green in color, race across the sky before burning up on the horizon. Tonight as Duncan and I sped through the park–it was too cold to walk– I craned my neck skyward hoping to catch at least another peek at the wonders of space. The clouds were rather light and whispy despite the fact that Denver is due for more snow later this evening and I could still clearly see the stars, especially the sideways W of Cassiopeia. While looking at one particular star just west of the middle point of the W a curious thing happened, it went out, or rather it appeared as if the heavens closed around it like the slow blinking of a great eye. I stopped and watched to see if it would appear again, a plane perhaps, or even a fluff of cloud that would slip away and reveal the light again. But two minutes later, ankle deep in the snow, no such thing happened and I felt something inside myself vibrate awake, become almost anxious. Duncan was impatient on the end of his leash and began snorting and rolling in the snow, pulling my arm after him. Still I watched and nothing happened. All the planes in the vicinity kept moving, the skies were still visible but that eye never reopened. The space around it stayed dark and nothing shifted, nothing took its place.

Paths We Think We Know

We walked under an amazing sky tonight, a deep indigo, like spilled ink overtaking a table, tinged with the most delicate sherbet orange along the horizon. Everything else not sky was black in silhouette, a bold contrast that warmed me even as the cold air reddened my cheeks.


Duncan quickly found the trail we'd carved through the snow last night and I was relieved to see that many others had followed it as well, electing to leave much of the white fields unblemished by tracks. Every now and then we crossed another path, but quite often they joined with ours, cutting a frozen road lined by white, crystal walls.

By the time we made it up the hill the sun had set and the spilled ink had finally claimed the table, and because the clouds had lifted, the sky and snow were finally dark, a true shade, the almost natural shade of night, only slightly tinged with the lights of the city. Standing above the lake I looked over toward the memorial, or specifically the base of Rebel Hill and noticed four pillars of light rising out of the snow, straight up into the night. I'd never noticed the lighting that had been put in below the trees that mark the entrance to the memorial even though I'd been there twice in the past week alone–another reminder of how easy it is to overlook the obvious, see only the forest rather than the trees. Those small lamps cut through the drifts and as an easy breeze sifted snow onto them, they steamed like dancing ghosts that whipped away almost as quickly as they'd appeared. I turned and looked out over the park, over Littleton and what bits of the surrounding city were visible to me and wondered at all the other things I'd passed and had not noticed.

It feels good knowing there's adventure still to be had on these well-traversed paths.

Shadow

"You can always tell how you're feeling by how your shadow looks."
(Tom Spanbauer, Now is the Hour)

Fluffy snow, no longer lazy, mingling snow. Real and honest to goodness. The kind of snow that whooshes when you push through it. The kind that, no matter how hard you try, sneaks under the cuffs of your pants, climbs down deep into your shoe, settling on the low side of your ankle and refuses to melt. The kind that clings to socks long after you've taken them off and dumped them in the hamper, mad little balls of impossibly stubborn snow hanging off them like burs. The kind of snow that won't let you see much else, even from the top of a hill. Except your shadow. Snow likes shadows as much, if not more, than the moon. Seems snow could hold a shadow almost as long as it takes to melt. God knows I love a sunny day, a bright warm Spring noontime, but I don't think anyone's shadow looks as good as it does on an unblemished field of sparkling snow.

Today I am thankful for snow. And, as always, Duncan leading me through it. We are quite striking out there, trudging and falling, climbing banks, sliding down hills, rolling and laughing. He keeps me young and my perspective clear. As clear as shadow on the snow in the park.

Falls Without Falling: A Deep-Morning Train of Thought

Sometimes you just stop sleeping. For no reason at all your eyes open and you're just as awake at 3:30 as you imagine you would be at 7. So you get up, climb into your clothes without turning on the lights, stumble down the hallway to the bathroom where you have a nice pee and then find the dog, who for some reason has curled up on the couch, like a cat, in a tight little ball, head to tail. After only a little persuasion you get him up and take him outside where you both discover it's snowing. While the dog buries his nose in the stuff, looking for that perfect spot, you shiver and bounce slightly on your knees. You hate this because the cold on your face and neck is nearly unbearable and will only make it that much harder to fall asleep again. Only moments ago you were tucked into bed sleeping softly, warmly under the comforter, the flannel sheets pulled up to your chin. Now here you are in the cold watching it snow, but not really. This snow is not coming from above, but from all directions–despite the lack of wind–and is so fine you can't really see it so much as feel it. You squint into the street lamp–your eyes are still sensitive to the light–and the night looks like something you see on one of those Discovery Channel specials where scientists take you below the ocean, far below the surface, to where the water turns dark and thick and all that stuff floats in it. You can only imagine what it is because they never really explain it, or even acknowledge it really, but surely it's bits of fish, meat and whatnot, and plant and microscopic motes that are designed to eat the rest of it. The snow looks like that, and the only other frame of reference you have is for those weekend afternoons when the sun is strong in the window and you stand at just such an angle so as to see all the millions of tiny bits which catch its light and float in your air. As a child it was fascinating and even called for a Catch-the-Dust game. As an adult it disgusts you and almost always results in a good vacuuming. So that is what the snow is like on this deep Tuesday morning. Have you ever even seen 3:45 on a Tuesday morning? Does the snow always fall without falling like this at this time? And why hasn't the dog finished his business? You check; he's not far away: the spot has been located and he's just starting to lean into it. You see the snow, more like mist, settle onto his back, get breathed up his nose like those afternoon dust motes. The world is silent and you can hear it, actually hear those tiny bits of ice drifting on the air around you. They don't sound like anything else except what they are. The same with the smell. Snow smells only like snow like rutabaga tastes only like rutabaga. Comparisons are pointless. Besides, the dog has finished and it's time to go inside, turn on the kettle and hope a cup of chamomile will set the night to right, help your head slip back down onto the pillow. If not, you can always write about it.

Snow Therapy

I did not have a good day and because I've grown so used to spending the majority of it sitting on my butt at my desk, my feet hurt because I was on them all day. By the time I got home I was grumpy, tired of people and barely able to stand myself. I certainly wasn't in the mood to take Duncan for a walk, but, once again my dog is smarter than me and showed me that I did want to walk, that sometimes doing the silliest things–dog things–can be rejuvenating and healthy.

We crossed the park and almost immediately he tossed himself into the snow, keeping his eye on me the entire time, almost as if he expected me to do the same. Of course I was in no mood for that so I pulled on his leash and demanded he walk. We hadn't gone more than ten feet when he did it again, rolling and sliding through the the wet, watching me as though I were the fool for not doing the same.

I finally coaxed him into walking but when we got to the far side of the baseball diamonds he simply stopped, turned toward the upper diamonds above Columbine and stared, his back to me. "Come on, Roo," I urged but he wouldn't budge. Thinking he might have spotted a rabbit, I finally gave in and let him take the lead. He led me up the narrow walk, turned left and kept going as though he knew exactly where he was taking me, which I don't doubt he did. After leading me around the volleyball courts we came to a a nice quiet spot, lined with short round trees with undisturbed snow where Duncan stopped and looked at me. He has this way of watching me, of cocking his head and raising his eyebrows that seems like he's trying to say something if only evolution would allow it. We stared at one another a moment and when he finally rolled over, face first, into the snow, I got the message.

Dropping his leash I flopped down on my back, spread my arms wide as Duncan threw himself into them. He nuzzled his head against my cheek, kicked his feet up into the air, as if trying to run upside down, grunted and snorted and covered me in thick wet snow. I laughed, pulled him close and tossed snow straight up, closed my eyes and felt it rain back down on us.

It was heaven, laying with my dog in the cold, not caring if someone else, or even the coyotes, were watching. I didn't care if they thought I was crazy because at that moment I knew that I was more sane than I had been all day.

Silence Broken

Sunday is not yet over and I feel the weight of Monday already upon us. Walking once more down the sidewalk I closed my eyes and let Duncan guide me as I sometimes do. Last night when we walked blind through the park, the snow fluttering on my tender pink eyelids, I listened for his steps, nearly the only thing I could hear amid the clamorous silence of the snowy night. I heard my feet pushing snow forward. I smelled it all around me. I trusted Duncan to guide me, if only for fifty feet. Tonight, on our last walk I closed my eyes again and knew the world had changed: the scent was gone, that crisp, cold linen smell; the flavor of it on my tongue was bitter, like the smell of as invisible gas or oil; the world was rich with sound, none of them as beautiful as the snow falling. And that was how I knew Monday had come. Rush, rush, rush. I feel it all around us. So I came home, wiped off his feet and nose, patted his head once, gathered my knitting and enjoyed the last of the day.

Dogcicle

Melissa called tonight for our weekly play-date with the dogs. She and Kona met us at the corner and as we crossed the street the whole park glistened orange and blue, a diamond mine for a playground. We let the dogs off leash, and with the exception of a brief incident involving two German Shepherds who did not like Dunc, the evening was nice. Melissa and I stood off to the side, our poop bags full, watching the dogs roll and wrestle, fight over sticks, leap up and crash back down into the snow. Kona, I discovered, enjoys having snow kicked in her face as much as Duncan, so I spent an exhausting hour kicking and scooping and kicking some more, but when it stopped melting off of Duncan's face I become concerned. His muzzle and ears were coated in ice and I could see large balls snow collecting between the pads of his feet. We came home and I noticed a slight limp when he walked, so once got inside I ran a tub with mildly warm water, tossed him in and watched the ice melt. He recovered almost immediately and I got wondering what else I should know about Winter pet care. I found the following information, most of which is common sense, but still worth taking a look at.

Sunday 6:30

First walk is the hardest. Getting out of bed on a snowy morning is brutal, especially touching my feet to the cold linoleum of the bathroom floor, although nothing seems to wake me up better than standing there and shivering. Thankfully Duncan is generally pretty patient with me; he's like a child, still dazed and dreamy with his hair slightly askew and a confused look on his face. He ambles down the hall behind me and stops to take a big stretch, a downward dog yoga pose, grinning up at me while I pull on my socks and Vans. By the time I'm slipping my cap and gloves on he's awake and dancing at the door, his tail wagging and his bum swaying side to side.

Outside in the new light of this Sunday morning the snow looks blue and the roads have not yet turned to gray and brown slush. An occasional car coasts by, barely moving over the ice, making no noise at all. While Duncan leans into the snow to pee, I watch the Christmas lights blink off and shiver a big one, from my shoulders down the middle of my back to my hips, which rattle in my big blue coat. I love morning time, love watching the world come awake, feeling like I'm witness to something so few know anything about, Sunday 6:30. While Dunc meanders along the fence line, his nose pushing the snow forward, I close my eyes and let the cold sting my cheeks and the place on the back of my neck where the scarf I wear has pulled loose. The air is so clean early Sundays, like the world has made a fresh batch just for me. Snow-scented air (and there is such a thing if you pay attention) is just as wonderful as entering a home where bread has only just come out of the oven. It brings a smile to my face. After a moment, I notice I can't hear the soft crunching of Duncan walking so I open my eyes to find him twenty or so feet away, hunched up in the green circle under a tree tending to his real business. I wait a few seconds for him to finish, then plod along, scoop it up in a bag, which I drop in the garbage bin. With a whistle and a pat on my leg I call him to me. He comes readily, his snout and face white, his eyes little raisins poking through. We move back inside where my tea kettle is already calling to me. As I choose my flavor (Egyptian Licorice Mint) Duncan goes back to bed and I settle down at my desk to watch the rest of the world catch up.

The Twenty-Five (or so): Another List

I have been tagged once again by my friend Kelly, from Property of Kelly, who now demands I list my Top 25 Movies. I don't really have a list of favorite movies in a set order, but I'll certainly give it a try.

• All About Eve* Joseph Mankiewicsz's writing is snappy and superb and the entire cast shines, especially Bette Davis. This film has some of the best lines ever written, bitter and brutal
• Sunset Boulevard* In my humble opinion, there is no finer performance recorded on film than the one provided by Gloria Swanson as Norma Desmond. Every inflection, every twitch, every gesture is calculated and serves a purpose. Simply amazing
• Meet Me in St. Louis* This one is purely sentimental. The Christmas scenes near the end always make me cry. Judy Garland is wonderful, but the true winner in this film is little Margaret O'Brien, who won an Oscar for Best Juvenile Performance that year
• The Royale Tenenbaums I can't think of a finer ensemble cast. Each performance is stunning, the writing is clever and poetic and I love this film even though almost everyone I know is bored by it
• Until the End of the World A film about dreams and our culture's addiction to images, which become a kind of paralyzing disease. Beautifully filmed and directed with an international cast, this one is one I could watch over and over
• The Color Purple Sure it's manipulative and sentimental, but I think I have cried every time I've seen this film since I was 15 years old. It will always be a favorite
• Peter Pan Who wouldn't want to be a flying child who never grows up?!
• Bambi I was born to be a Bambi fan. I had no choice in the matter. My grandmother quilted my baby blanket with Bambi on it, took me to see the film and bought me the soundtrack. I have mighty memories of her and can not watch this movie without thinking of and missing her terribly
• Gone with the Wind* It's almost unbearably long, but this film is amazing and couldn't be a minute shorter. Vivian Leigh's performance, while a bit theatrical, is stunning. The grandiosity of the entire production is a marvel. I've watched three times this past year alone
• Magnolia Another one of those films in which people claim "nothing happens." If by nothing happening they mean the final fifteen minutes of the film when the most shocking and surreal thing I've ever seen occurs, sign me up for lots more "nothing."
• A Star is Born* "I was born in a trunk in the Princess Theater in Pocatello, Idaho..." This is a wonderful flim and the story of its restoration is just as intriguing. The FBI became involved and after nearly 70 years you still can't watch it in its entirety. This film became the film that inspired the world to preserve our celluloid history
• Boogie Nights This film is not about pornography so much as family, and with the 70's backdrop, a terrific ensemble cast and sharp directing by Paul Thomas Anderson I can't help but love it as much as I loved my Charlie's Angels lunch-box
• Fight Club This one had the poorest marketing campaign of any film I've seen. It's not about beating people senseless, it's about politics and society and should be required viewing for every college student in the country
• Brokeback Mountain Not because it's in the manual and I'm supposed to say that, but because it shows how truly fluid and ambiguous sexuality and love can be, even in the most unlikely of people
• Fiddler on the Roof A huge production with wonderful music, a great cast and "Tradition!" My sister and I used to watch this when we were kids, and had memorized my grandmother's soundtrack album by the time we'd entered elementary school
• Life is Beautiful A moving film that literally left me speechless for well over an hour after we left the theater. Ken, April and I were unable to speak without sobbing–not crying or sniffling, sobbing. This film is about courage and sacrifice and should be, I believe, watched by everyone
• Pulp Fiction No one does dialogue like Tarantino, except perhaps Mankiewicsz and no one delivers it better than Samuel L. Jackson, Uma Thurman and Bruce Willis
• The Music Man All those trombones and a fun soundtrack make this one fun to watch and great to knit along with
• Moulin Rouge Another musical with a killer soundtrack and excellent performances by the entire cast. This was the film that made me finally like Nicole Kidman, who is far more talented than she's been given credit for
• Waiting for Guffman Christopher Guest and cast deliver an amazing improvised story of a small town putting on a show for a New York theater critic. I can't help but laugh almost all the way through
• Monty Python and Holy Grail I don't know of a funnier film. I memorized it during college and spent months doing little more than quoting it, recreating scenes with my friends, trying desperately to determine the airspeed velocity of an unladen sparrow and saying "ni" until my mouth was bruised.
• Star Wars A New Hope Although its sequel, The Empire Strikes Back, is the best of the franchise, this is the film that made me fall in love with movie-making at the age of six. Every time I put it on I get goosebumps and remember what it was like to be a child and in awe of the universe and the magic of storytelling
• Rebel Without a Cause Not because of James Dean and his style of method acting, but because of the impact it had on film making and culture. It changed everything and gave teenagers a voice that still rings out in films such as Breakfast Club, Dazed and Confused and countless others
• Red River* The only Western I own. This was Monty Clift's first film. Cast against John Wayne he looks a bit like a wet puppy, but delivers the strongest performance in the film. And watching it it's fun to know that sometimes a gun is not always a gun
• This is Spinal Tap 'Nuff said
• American Beauty "Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in."

I think there's one extra in there, but who cares. It took far longer than I expected. If you haven't seen all of them, I strongly encourage you to do so. They're pretty good.

*As recommended by my good friend, and Movie Mentor, David, who has taught me more about movies than I'll ever remember and far less than he knows. Quite often David feels that when recommending movies to me he's casting "pearls before swine," but my life has been tremendously enriched by his efforts and would be quite empty without him. Thank you, sir! Don't give up hope and keep the lessons coming!

Down, Above and Below

We just took our last walk of the night. The clouds are heavy and low, a delicate mist has settled over the park and the entire night has been painted a soft orange under the clouds reflecting the street lamps. Were they not here I wonder if the world would be blue, or even visible at all. The silence is loud, a kind of thick cottony deafness brought on by the snow, still pure and unmarred by the feet others, my favorite kind of snow to walk in.

There were geese flying overhead. I did not see them but I heard the heavy beats of their wings coming from somewhere between the clouds and the ground, a thick, rhythmic flap, weighted and meaty. This is the season for geese, who make what seems an endless migration from one small Denver lake to another. They never quite manage to leave, just rotate homes. They are permanent in their impermanence, their sticky green dropping sometimes the only reminder they were here at all. Sidewalks become treacherous places, each step a careful negotiation, but the snow hides things, if only temporarily, and we can pretend every step is safe.

Because I'm on a Mary Oliver kick I thought I'd share another poem I've read recently. We seem to be in sync this weekend, Mary and I, but she is much better at capturing a moment than I could hope to be.

Snow Geese

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!
What a task
to ask
of anything, or anyone,
yet it is ours,
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see,
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun
so they were, in part at least, golden. I
held my breath
as we do
sometimes
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match,
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully,
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt.
The geese
flew on,
I have never seen them again.
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won't.
It doesn't matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them,
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

Snowy Night

It's strange how snow muffles the sound of the world, places a hush over it that not even the seemingly endless traffic on Bowles can penetrate. The cars, moving trepidaciously, are barely audible and only the deep rumble of the ploughs and sanders emit any noise at all, and even that is little more than vibration, something felt, by my skin and deep organs, rather than heard. I have spent time on the patio with my eyes closed, face turned into the last downy trickles of flakes wafting down from above, flakes not even falling so much as drifting and mingling, dancing lazily with the still currents of the air before coming to rest on my nose and cheeks. I've taken my cue from Duncan, who knows how to appreciate snow, taste it and breath it in, allow it to cover his face, slip down the length of his nose and drip finally at his feet. He is a connoisseur of the weather and a poet of the seasons.

After our walk we trudged home, my Vans soaked, the cuffs of my jeans ice-encrusted from the nearly continuous snow-scattering foot-sweep I perform to his delight. As we left the park I caught the sound of our owl, a lonely hollow noise that barely pierced the covered fields before reaching my ears. We both paused, Duncan cocked his head and I smiled. It made me think of a Mary Oliver poem I'd read recently:

Snowy Night
Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

I love this world, but not for its answers. I love my dog for the same reason: his tremendous delight in not knowing but understanding nonetheless, a wise poet whose verse is writ with the silence of footfalls in the snow.

Taunt

This one little rabbit, this class-clown of a coney, a gutsy little bugger, has been gunning for Duncan for days now. I've seen him huddled along the fence between the apartment and Bowles. He waits for my ambling dog, waits until Duncan is almost upon him and then springs straight up and dashes off across the lawn. If my life was a cartoon there'd be loud sound effects accompanying him, a SPRONG and a puff of smoke as his feet leave the earth along with a KA-ZING and a trail of dust as he speeds away in manic little zigs and psychotic little zags.

Tonight, though, the little beast ratcheted it up a notch, as if the challenge of waiting until the lumbering oaf was almost upon him wasn't enough. I'm not quite sure where he was but both Duncan and I missed him. We walked right down the middle of the yard, me whistling that damn "Sleigh Ride" song again (read: still), Duncan pulling on his leash, crossing back and forth in front of me, checking out the brown little calling cards of all the dogs in the neighborhood. I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and looked down to see this damn little show-off hopping along right beside me, no more than three feet away, moving only slightly faster than me until he was just about dead even with Duncan, who, as usual, didn't notice him until I said, rather stupidly, "Hey... !" Only then did he look up and over his shoulder at me and right into the prancing little face of the world's cockiest hare, who immediately pulled his SPRONG KA-ZING routine and took off in frenetic little hops toward the safety of the shrubs. Duncan, suddenly oblivious to the leash and collar he wears whenever we're out, rushed after him, pulled on the leash until his feet were yanked out from under him, went down in a gagging, choking heap, jumped back up and dragged me right along with him.

We never caught him but I'm telling you, one of these days I'll open a can of Fudd on his butt, let go of Duncan and see just how far he gets. No fear, though; Duncan doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He'd probably just lick him to death.

Magic Feather Update

A quick word of thanks to the people who have sent or given me feathers:

• Matt, for grabbing the first one and calling it "Arapahoe Community College's contribution." It's a lovely striped goose feather, small and round, shaped like the belly of a spoon or a canoe paddle, the kind of feather than could float and drift for days at a time.
• Amber, for bringing two lovely white feathers from her pillows. They are long and icicle white and curl into elegant points like pale, sinewy quotation marks. They will be the voice of my journey, calling out our coming across the long Wyoming miles and winding Idaho roads.
• Penny, from work, who knows nothing of my feather seeking, but picked up a soft gray chalk smudge of a feather and was told by Amber to bring it to me.
• Karren, who sent a lovely, lovely feather she inked by hand. She was clever enough to notice that I did not specify the feather had to be real, but figured out it could be imagined as well, then made real by the magic of her long years of friendship. It is long and dark with the slightest, most delicate of arcs at either end, round on the tip, whispy but strong, the kind of feather that could both guide an arrow or tickle a nose.
• David, in Illinois, sent a single, whisper of a feather, like the sheddings off a summer cloud. He included a lovely note which said, "this little fellow popped to fore from my featherbed where, for years, he has offered comfort and warmth to me during good times and bad, during the coldest of winter nights. On this feather I have fretted, dreamt and slept in peace. Now it insists on lifting you as you fly."
• Carol, a work colleague from days of yore. We both survived our time at the Quality Inn in Pocatello, she as the snappiest, smartest waitress in the place and me as her ever-laughing, acne-marked busboy. Carol had big dreams and decided she wanted to be a pharmacist when she grew up, which finally happened. She is one of the most imaginative people I know. She sent a single long feather from the tail of a pheasant, which she said came from her grandson. It's gold and amber with stripes of dark chocolate, rough near the quill, but soft and downy along its length. It's a feather for a Robin Hood, or Powhatan, or a feather that when dipped in ink could write many tales of one traveler's journeys.

Thank you all. Your contributions mean the world to me. I feel more and more brave with the arrival of each one. And I look forward to receiving more as Christmas draws closer. Before I leave I'll be sure to post a picture of my collection.

While Pampering Pip

Pip has made it perfectly clear that this whole Duncan-thing is highly overrated. We've had a spotty week, Pip and me, what with the way he can't stand to see a throw rug laying flat rather than in a crumpled and possibly lethal ball. Or the way he disapproves of a closed door. He does not abide being shut out of a space, be it a closet, a cabinet, the bathroom. And then there's his delightful way spilling water glasses in the middle of the night, sticking his paw into them and tipping them at just such an angle so as to ensure maximum saturation of nearby pillows, blankets, sleeping heads.

We have this routine, the children and me. Every morning as I'm preparing to leave for work they line up to see me off and I put one in charge. Winnie and Pip alternated days for years until Olive came along. It seemed inappropriate to put the youngest in charge of her elders, so I waited four or so years before Olive got her trial run. She did a splendid job and now pulls in one day a week, the rest being equally divided between Winnie and Pip. Once Duncan was old enough I appointed him the permanent Sergeant at Arms, my Number Two, a position he has honored and respected by sleeping mightily throughout the day. Duncan has never been placed in charge, first because he's too young, and second because I would return home to a full-fledged mutiny, the dog dead, rugs shredded and my blog commandeered to drive the point home.

Pip has been quite precocious this week, dashing madly in front of me as I walk, stopping unexpectedly, and just an hour ago gagging and retching on the linoleum in the kitchen, only to step gingerly out onto the carpet to complete the act and expel the nasty ball of hair I'm sure he'd been saving up for me all day.

Duncan has the night off and Pip has been placed in the highest esteem, if only to ward off further attacks.

Pray it works.

Day

I'm trying not to get sick. Ken has been trying but apparently not quite as hard as me. He succumbed last night and woke with a terrific fever. We've both been snorting Zicam, Ken to reduce the gunk that's infected him and me to stave off any possible advance on the gunk front. War has been declared.

I spent the day dealing with students anxious to sell their textbooks at our bookstore. Some were lucky and received hundreds of dollars; others did not fare quite as well. And while some were angry and hostile (it's not uncommon to have my physical safety or my life threatened) others were gracious and patient. They are the ones that made today bearable. And the Xanax certainly didn't hurt. The next week will be a challenge but soon it'll be Christmas and I'll be loaded down with feathers, driving and whistling my way back to Idaho.

Karren had a tough week at work but somehow managed to look beyond her trouble and find some peace and solace right here with Duncan and me. She sent me an email this morning that truly touched me: "I couldn't wait to get home and read your next posting. It helps me stop and think about the simpler things in life... It may seem silly and I know it’s not why you write your blog, but I just wanted you to know that it’s very important and special to me. It’s funny how you can touch peoples lives without even realizing it and I believe when someone touches your life like that you should tell them. So I’m telling you." What she doesn't realize is that this is precisely why I write my blog. Duncan has taught me to focus on the details of my life, the particulars of our time together, be it huddling in the cold, chasing snow or hunting rabbits. Watching his daily discoveries and rediscoveries has opened my eyes to the ways of the world I would never have noticed if he hadn't joined our family. Sharing that time with Duncan has allowed me to share my time with everyone who occasionally reads these pages. I'm grateful for each of you.

While I'm not exactly sure how Duncan spent his day, I know it involved sleeping, cuddling on the couch with his dad, chasing Pip, and giving his Berry a bath. No crowds, no yelling, no coughing or sneezing, no bosses, just the lazy joy of being a dog.

Deeplier, Deeplier

Deeplier, deeplier, loudlier, loudlier,
The trees are swaying, swaying, swaying.
(Wallace Stevens, The Region November)

I have not had this much hair in a long time. It's not long hair, but it's long by Curt Standards. For the past twelve years or so, after long college hair and a rather gruesome Marty Stouffer beard, I practically shaved my head and have kept my hair close-cropped ever since. This past Fall I decided to grow it out, just to see how long I could go before hacking it off again (it's never more than a month or two) and I've recently rediscovered what it's like to have the wind blow through my hair rather than across my slowly expanding forehead.

Tonight my hair was all over the place. The wind was tremendous, shaking the trees, roaring through the branches, erasing the clouds from the sky in minutes, leaving only faint smears, like smudges of chalk on a blackboard. The park was littered with sticks and dragging Duncan through it was challenge. There were so many differing agendas on our walk tonight that I'm still not sure which direction we went in. I was plowing ahead, leaning into the gale, squinting through the shrapnel of once-leaves, pursing my lips to keep from inhaling bark; Duncan wanted only to stop and chew or chase stray leaves that whipped past us like tiny bouncing cars; my hair wanted to do it's own thing, puff up big or blow back flat.

We forced our way home, stalking two bunnies on the way, and collapsed in heaps on the couch, wind-whipped and tired. It'll be good sleep tonight.

Light

I miss daylight. And sunsets. Especially the sunsets.

Eight years ago when Ken and I first moved here it was difficult for us to find much to like about Denver, but the one thing that continually amazed me were the sunsets. Having grown up in Idaho I thought I'd seen some pretty spectacular evening skies, but none has compared to those I've seen here, and each time I hear the chorus of John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" I have to sigh and agree.

Colorado Rocky Mountain high.
I've seen it raining fire from the sky.
The shadow from the starlight is softer than a lullaby,
Rocky Mountain high, Colorado.

I worked late tonight but somehow managed to slip outside just as the sun was setting and catch a few shots on my cell phone.

The sun was caught between the clouds and the mountains and quickly, even as I was fumbling to take the pictures, it changed from blue and gold to crimson and everything that stood against it became the blackest of silhouettes.

And then it seemed that December said a sweet goodbye to Autumn by placing the most brilliant leaf in the sky.

I wish I could've been in the park with Duncan. I wish I could've stopped and marveled at it and then turned my eye in his direction, just in time to see his color change, became redder, but somehow softer, more touchable. I would've bent down and hugged him, as I often do, but in that light it would've been even more wonderful.

By the time I got home it was dark but still very warm. We climbed the top of the Columbine Memorial to look down on Denver spread out all around us. This is what we do on warm nights. The sound of the traffic faded away and I laid down on the stone bench and looked up at the orange clouds, which weren't moving so much as mingling. Duncan jumped up and curled around my shoulders. He placed his paw on my chest and licked the top of my head as he likes to do when we settle down for the night. I closed my eyes and thought that I could fall asleep only to wake up later and wonder where I was; perhaps I'd imagine I was flying, looking down on a million glowing cities. It would've been strange, but with my dog curled up, almost on top of me, it would've been an exquisite dream from which to wake.

Playdate

Melissa called bright and early this morning to see if Duncan and I wanted to join her for a playdate with Kona at the park. It was beautiful and crisp, cold enough that I donned a cap and gloves, but the sun was still warm and the park was bright and only a little misty.

Melissa and Kona were already at the park by the time we arrived, but the moment we crossed Bowles Kona spotted us and charged. Duncan hardly knew what was going on; I'm sure he expected little more than our usual quiet morning stroll, hunting for squirrels and sniffing out discarded water bottles. Kona was on him like a train and within minutes they were chasing and romping back and forth, running the distance of the football field as they chased and wrestled.


Socializing my dog has been a nerve-racking experience, more for myself than for Duncan. I never quite know how dogs are going to take to each other and what may be little more than friendly trash-talk quite often sounds like bloody murder to my ears. Obviously I don't want him to get hurt but I certainly don't want him hurting another dog. He never bites and has a tendency to roll right over and show his belly, even to younger and smaller dogs. The only thing Duncan does ferociously is play.

And that's exactly what he and Kona did. Melissa brought a brand new shiny green ball she'd picked up for Kona yesterday, and while we expected we'd spend the morning tossing it across the field for them, Duncan quickly corrected that line of thinking. He monopolized the ball and refused to share, laying down, chewing on it, even sometimes rolling over on top of it to prevent Kona from getting it. She could've cared less; she's more of a wrestler and quickly grows tired of fetching and retrieving. But she will run and run and huff and roll around and run some more. Like Duncan she never seems to tire.

After an hour or so they both got bored and we parted ways, Melissa off on an afternoon date and me to stop by Hero's and drop off some cat food we're donating, then the library and finally the grocery store. Duncan was beat and by the time I got home an hour later, he hardly noticed me.

I like these kind of days.

December

“How did it get so late so soon?
It's night before it's afternoon.
December is here before it's June.
My goodness how the time has flewn.
How did it get so late so soon?”
(Dr. Seuss)

Has the air changed or is it just me? November was a long month but December always seems to find a way of passing us by before we've even had a chance to enjoy it. When I was young the thirty or so days between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed an eternity, passing like the longest of Sunday afternoons, gray and cold without snow, too frigid to make the trek to the park on the top of the hill, too cold to ride our bikes. It seemed all we could was languish indoors, watching the sky turn from silver to black, counting down each moment until it was Christmas.

Now, though, December passes in the blink of an eye. There's so much to be done and too little time to pause in our efforts and relish the moment. If Christmas is the Disneyland of holidays for children, adults see it merely as the lines we're forced to stand in just to enjoy the rides. As grown-ups we're too impatient, to ready to be done with it, too willing to throw our days away.

Duncan stayed close to my side tonight as we crossed Bowles and strolled through the crisping, frosted grass. Neither of us seemed in any sort of rush. I'd just taken a long shower and shaved. The air felt good on my newly exposed cheeks and bare chin, clean and with only the slightest of stings. We enjoyed the light mist that rolled between the trees, that drifted over the white lines marking the baseball diamond. Across the street we could the Christmas lights coming on in the windows and because it's finally December I didn't mind it as much. Even managed to smile because of it.

And even though it's going to be another difficult Christmas for us, I promised Duncan and myself that we'll go at our own pace, and maybe this time, instead of standing in the lines we'll find contentment standing off to the side, watching and listening to the glee and merriment, taking our own special joy in it.

The Hunt

There were two hunters behind our building tonight, Duncan, scouring the fence line and tree trunks where the rabbits curl in tight little balls, and the owl which swept down low in front of us as it too scanned the grass with its enormous yellow eyes. I'd seen it alight on top of the building earlier while talking on the phone, but afterward, when we took our last walk––our cold, late-night walk––it appeared suddenly, crossing my field of vision before coming to rest on top of the fence. As we neared, it took to the air again, landing atop another building and carefully marking our progress along the fence. Duncan seemed oblivious, his nose to the ground. Quite often we chase down a rabbit on our return from the park; they hide motionless in the grass, ears tucked down next to their bodies, until we are nearly on top of them, before they spring up and dart a zig-zag pattern across the lawn, cutting a wild path through the frost or snow as they scuttle toward the edge of the building and the shrubs that offer safety there. It became obvious that the owl was using us to startle up its prey and I wondered what would happen when Duncan finally came across one, whether or not we'd be witness to a quick flutter of wings from above and a scream as a rabbit was caught. Fortunately for the rabbits we reached home and as we turned inside I looked once more up at the tall brown body staring down at us, its head swivelling and jerking as it peered in our direction.

Funny, for weeks we've been seeking it out at The Owl Tree, returning almost nightly to the tree we found it in. Perhaps it's been seeking us as well.