Now is the Hour

The electoral votes have shifted dramatically in the past week, and not in the favor of progress and change.

How is your health care? I hope you're better off than the 47 million who have none.

How do this country's students measure up against those in China or Korea?

Are you one of the lucky ones who still has a house?

What happened to your 401K today?

Have you talked to your friends about Troopergate?

I can not urge you enough to pass on this video, not only to those who share your beliefs but most especially to those who don't. I am an idealist and a patriot and I want desperately to feel proud of this country again, to know that the world holds us in the high regard they once did. I want to walk my dog in the park in the afternoons and not shudder at the McCain Palin signs which are beginning to creep up around me. I want to believe that Americans are smarter than to think the Republican agenda is about anything other than keeping rich, white folk rich, the disenfranchised forgotten, and all the rest of us poor, sick and scared out of our minds.

Stand up. Learn all you can learn and educate everyone around you. Now is the hour. If you are as repulsed by the past eight years as I am, why would you do nothing to prevent another four? If you're like many of the people I know who vote Republican and don't know why, who do it because their parents did and don't care to learn about the actual issues, not the lies, then make a point of asking someone, or shut the hell up and get out of the way of progress and change. This is my country, too, and I take responsibility for it. We all must. There is no time left to abide ignorance and laziness.

Now go do something.

Summer's Silhouette

On this night, the night Summerset has ended––the tents folded up, the wares placed back in their careful packaging and the crowds dispersed––Summer really does seem to have gone. It rained for two days straight, clearing up yesterday, enough to appease the crowds and vendors, but turned cold again for much of today. Duncan and I have avoided the park; it's too much to see the litter everywhere, our precious fields reduced to parking lots and lanes. But this afternoon, as they were tearing things down, we wandered across the street if only to visit the Colorado Democrats booth and see if perhaps they had some Obama signs left over. They were quite happy to report that they had none, that, in fact, there wasn't a single sign to be had in the entire state. More should arrive on Tuesday at a town hall meeting so hopefully I'll be able to grab one. Afterward we wandered the park, Duncan's eyes and nose aimed at the ground where he sniffed for remnants of corn dogs, turkey legs and funnel cake. The sky seemed far away as an enormous hawk cut across it, riding the air from the golf course to the park and back again, its wings spread out, hardly moving, its eyes seeing more in the end of the summer than my fellow groundlings. My eyes, though, were trained on the trees, especially the elms, which almost look like they had not even experienced the green of summer. Their leaves have withered already and the branches, which only a few weeks ago were dense and heavy, are now bony and bare. Most of the leaves that have already fallen had been carted away for the weekend's festivities, but a single gold one alighted near my foot and came to rest against a curling dandelion, papery and as transparent as Summer's silhouette can be, perhaps the sign the hawk had been seeking.


My heart breaks every year at the passing of Summer, but tonight, as I prepared a heaping pot of chili, I kept the patio doors open to allow the air inside while Duncan curled up with Bugsy on the cool cement, his nose still turned toward the now empty field across the street. While I chopped and cut and mixed and sipped from the spiced rum which I dribbled into the pot, the slap of a baseball striking a bat rang loud and true, followed by the frenzied cries of the team and spectators. It was a welcome sound, a song of summer, and seemed to drive back my autumn melancholy a bit. Summer is not gone. Not yet, not as long as the lights on the field slice the night and I can hear the game, as long as there is a dandelion left to cast a shadow.

Gift

There was a package waiting for me when I got home yesterday, a nice big, heavy one, the kind that makes you smile when you jiggle it to hear what kind of noises it makes. Duncan was slow to greet me, asleep as he was across my side of the bed, dreaming of Winnie feeding him pumpkin cookies while Olive and Pip rubbed his feet. But once he heard me cutting into it he was quick to snap into action and whine and do his shaky little rump dance at my feet, somehow knowing the contents were for him.

It seemed that Val from My Boo Bear and Sue at Random Ramblings had sent us a little care package with all sorts of goodies inside, including a new bunny (we've already dubbed him Bugsy), a duck (Beaker), a crazy Zap Ball, which looks and acts like the amputated nose of a giant clown, glowing and lighting up as it makes all sorts of crazy amputee kinds of noises that have Duncan pining for it every minute of the day. They also sent a perfectly timed package of doggy bags for our walks, three big chews, a San Diego Golden Retriever Meetup group t-shirt and hat, which I assume were meant for me since they look ridiculous on Dunc, and because the fields of Colorado have been devoid of them this summer, they included a beautiful set of ceramic monarch butterflies so that I always have them nearby to guide and direct my course. It was an incredibly thoughtful and generous gift, and has already brought us hours of fun. Duncan will not let Bugsy out of his sight, but I'm afraid his Berry is feeling a little abandoned.


As I told them yesterday, when I first began writing about my walks with Duncan a year ago I had no idea I'd meet such wonderful and supportive people. I have received far more from my readers than I could've hoped and I'm grateful everyday for each and every one of them.

Thank you Sue and Val. You mean the world to me. And Duncan, too.

"... Put lipstick on a pig, it's still a pig."

There are many, many reasons not to vote for John McCain and Sarah Palin this November such as their positions on education, health care and the war, just to name a few, but I wanted to share one which only recently came to my attention. My friend, Greg, at The Midnight Garden, posted a clip about this last week and I was reminded of it again this afternoon by another friend. As you watch, look at those faces––really look at them. Do they seem that much different from the animal companions in your own life?

Perhaps politics are best left to other, more appropriately suited blogs, but as the election draws nearer I have to ask myself, are we really better off now than we were eight years ago? The woman I spoke with today who has no health insurance would certainly say no. The vet I met downtown last week who was missing both legs and a fair portion of his cheek would certainly agree that we are not. I ask each of you to sit down and consider that maybe this election is about more than your own well-being, that perhaps we need to look beyond ourselves and make some changes for the betterment of others. If nothing else, look for guidance in the faces of those who have no voice, the children, the forgotten and the animals.

We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.
(Native American proverb)

Visit BarackObama.com to see how you can make a difference in your community

Autumn Lover

The coming of Autumn is an awkward thing, strange and uncomfortable, unreliable and unpredictable, wild and tepid all at once, like taking a new lover to bed. There is strangeness and newness, not knowing how to hold one another, or where arms and legs fit best together, wanting desperately to be revealed fully and with abandon while also maintaining restraint for fear of going too far. They are dangerous times, the early days, because it's all too easy to forget where you've been and throw yourself headfirst into where you think you want to go.

If nothing else, Autumn is a damn fine tease, luscious and ripe, with cider-lipped kisses and full-bodied embraces one moment, a cold and icy stare followed by a barely whispered litany of curses the next. She has been many things in the week or so since she invited herself to stay and I can't help but think that if she were indeed a prospective partner whether I'd return her call the next morning or chalk up our brief tumble as drunken lunacy.

We have turned a corner here on the Front Range, and I can't remember when it has ever seemed so abrupt, like flipping the dial on the radio. Until recently our nights have been quite warm and Ken and I have slept with the windows open, pulling a breeze from one side of the apartment to the other. Duncan spent much of the summer under the bed, away from Ken, who burns in his sleep like a furnace. The cats, even Olive, have retreated to the dining room where they huddle on the chairs tucked neatly beneath the table. It has been quite nice, having the bed to ourselves again, being able to spread out, our legs stretched and bent in number fours, our arms draped across one another with little care. But Saturday morning we awoke early, the air in the bedroom startlingly cold on our faces, our bodies nicely warmed tucked under the comforter, Duncan, a thin lengthwise line lodged firmly between us. The pillows had grown cats while we slept, which purred softly against the tops of our heads. It has been easy to take Duncan out in the mornings, slipping on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, wandering into the grass in bare feet while Duncan plods along ahead of me. But Saturday it changed and since then we have stumbled outside early in the mornings, while darkness still whispers and hums a lullaby to the west and just as sunlight begins creeping forward along slender, dewy spiderwebs in the east. It has been shocking to see my breath, to feel the muscles of my body condense and compact around my bones. The grass is like needles, cold and sharp and my bare toes have been concealed by socks and shoes, my shorts replaced by jeans––the first I've worn since May.


What kind of lover makes you dress up each time she reaches her arms out to you? Summer pulled the clothes from our bodies, kissing the tips of our noses with each new bare limb, whispering dirty little words in our ear as we went. Autumn, though.. Autumn is a bitch and throws them back in our faces and calls us sentimental bores.

Oh that Summer did not have to go away to college and we could hold on to it forever.

When Ya Gotta Go: Two Roads

"I see my path, but I don't know where it leads. Not knowing where I'm going is what inspires me to travel it." (Rosalia de Castro)

Funny, the way we set off in a direction with only a vague idea of destination, and eventually, when we're not even looking really, reach that place we didn't quite know existed. One year ago Duncan walked me across the park and led me to that momentary encounter which changed our walks forever. Prior to that they'd been private affairs and most of what occurred remained in my head, only occasionally surfacing in dreams or perhaps journal entries or conversations with Ken; the vast majority, though, are lost, little more than flashes of experience which flit across my sense memory and then fade away again.

Let me tell you.

When I was six and shortly after my mother and sister and I moved from Nampa, Idaho to Pocatello, I remember asking my mother to sit down at our kitchen table and take dictation. There was a story about a monkey and a pig and a walk through the jungle that wasn't going to tell itself and so Mom sat patiently and filled in the words I was unable to commit to paper. She may still have them even now.

By the time I was ten and able to scratch words out on my own, I was the star of creative writing in the fourth grade. Mrs. Coons, an army sergeant of a woman who I feared first and loved later, encouraged my writing, and my voice. That summer I began writing plays which all the kids in the neighborhood performed for our parents in my backyard.

At thirteen I began an epic story, a soap opera really, which I wrote for the next ten years, filling more than twenty enormous volumes. It had an unfortunate title, Love Affair, but to give you some idea of how long it was, if it had been on television and you were to watch one episode a week, thirty weeks of the year, it would take you fourteen years to reach the end.

At twenty-one I awoke from a sound sleep, a voice speaking in my ear, deep and omnipotent––one of those voices you do not ignore, like Kevin Costner's character in "Field of Dreams,"––telling me, "If you go, it will happen." My gut told me I needed to move to Lake Forest, Illinois to study creative writing. And so I did, without much explanation, and with little warning. While there I composed three books, one for each year, made only ten copies and gave them to those friends and family I was closest to. I graduated with many honors from my department and with the aid of my words was fully expected to make something of myself.

And then, by the time I reached thirty, the words seemed to have dried up and left as suddenly as they appeared. One morning not long after my mentor, Phil Simmons––author of Learning to Fall––, had died, I awoke, Ken asleep next to me, to find Phil sitting at the foot of my bed, his hand firmly planted on my calf, shaking me awake.

"Curt," he said in that high-pitched and unsure quivering voice of his. "You are not doing what you are supposed to be doing."

I actually argued with him––which was not an entirely new thing to occur between us––tried to convince him there were more important people he should be sitting with, his wife and two young children that I did not matter, than the words were gone.

"Shut up," he told me. "And listen..." And for the next five minutes I did as he said, never doubting he was really there, awake and as sure of his presence as I was of Ken's, or Winnie, curled up on the pillow where my head had made a nice round, warm impression for her. Phil reminded me that I was a writer and that I was squandering the gift the universe had bestowed on me, that I needed to write because that was what I had always been meant to do. And then he was gone, had slipped from existence, leaving behind a sense of where he'd sat, the warmth of his palm on my leg, the sound of his gravel voice still humming inside my ears. Ken awoke, asked who I'd been talking to, and when I explained, he smiled and pulled me into his arms, not disbelieving my story and told me, "Well then, you should write."

My problem has always been beginnings. They are elusive and I am a perfectionist, and if the words don't hit the right tone, have a perfect rhythm or make the complete and solid sound of a lid sealing a jar, they are no good. Despite having the entirety of my first novel in my head, a novel I know is good, know will be published because Phil told me so, I haven't written it because I've been waiting for the words. And so a year ago I started my first blog, School Daze, which eventually led me to Duncan, who has spent the past year leading me every other place, the most important of which has been back to my words. I have worked hard sharpening my voice and finding confidence in it, rediscovering the joy that can be had in a good story. Walking is a lot like telling a story. There is a place to begin, there is a route which, although not always visible, will lead you, if you persevere, to the place you need to go, or maybe even some place better. Then, last Sunday morning, when I did not expect it and was hardly prepared, I awoke at that place. Words had arranged themselves in a new and surprisingly good order inside my head, and it was only when I jumped out of bed and committed them to paper that I realized I'd been handed the plans to my next journey, which I have been waiting a long time to take. The novel I have waited so patiently to begin writing has finally decided it wants to be written. And so it shall.

I have been faithful and disciplined and there has not been a day since I began this undertaking a year ago that I have not walked Duncan and brought you along for part of it. We will still walk and you are still invited to share it with us, but I must take the new path as well, because, as Phil said, that is what I am meant to do. There are more stories to tell and although Duncan's is far from finished I can no longer tell it every day. It won't be easy; I've fretted over it for a very long time but I wanted to tell you because even this has been part of the journey. From the moment I shared our first walk, I had a plan; I just didn't realize it would come so soon.

Duncan and I will be waiting for you. He is always ready and my legs need to be stretched often. Autumn is nice around these parts and I'd love to tell you all about it. There is a mist out tonight and although most of the sky is clouded, I can see Orion peeking out from behind the clouds. He has had many adventures since last we saw him. Maybe he'll share them with us next time. Whenever that may be. Not too long, I hope.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference. (Robert Frost)

*Photo, as usual, "borrowed" from Google Images

Mishap

Walking a dog can be like dancing, with both partners attempting to move as gracefully as possible while seamlessly navigating around each other. Duncan and I often struggle over who is in charge, and despite my best efforts I have to admit that most of the time he leads. And even though I allow him to take us where he will as often as possible, we still get our signals on occasion and find ourselves sprawled on the ground.

This afternoon––a beautiful, warm afternoon walking among the tall clumps of lavender and hip-high wild grass which has yellowed nicely––I dropped his leash and let him run free at the top of the park. He'd stumbled upon a brand new tennis ball on the far side of the courts and I mistook his delight in its fuzzy greenness as an invitation to play fetch. Duncan wanted only to hunker down in the grass and gnaw on it as the clouds merged and parted above us. After several attempts to pry it from his jaws he jumped up and scampered away. I leapt after him, which only spurred him on harder. He bolted several yards ahead, dragging his leash after him. I charged close behind, reaching out for his tail, pinching his rump, making all sorts of playful noises and not paying the slightest attention to where my feet landed, which ensured they'd come down on the leash.

Duncan came to an immediate halt. Or rather, because his speed and my foot on the leash prevented him from going anywhere, he did an abrupt somersault, his chin pulling into his chest and his hind end––the last part of him to figure out what had happened––came up over his head. He flipped on his side and because he still couldn't move, splayed out flat on his belly, legs akimbo. His sudden lack of momentum caught me off guard and I toppled right over him, jogging my feet this way and that, rapidly tip-toeing to avoid his paws and tail. He tucked his head down and waited for me to pass above before careening completely out of control and landing in a heap a few feet away.

When it was done, me crawling across the grass to check on him, he gave me that scolding, "You-had-to-mess-it-up" look I get only when he really means it, then turned away from me, pulled the tennis ball out from under his belly and went back to chewing on it, keeping his back to me for a long time. A very long time.

It was an hour before he let me near enough to retrieve his leash and walk with him back home.

Happy Birthday, Dunc!

"It takes a long time to grow young." (Pablo Picasso)

Homemade cake (raw beef patty, rice and peanut butter drizzles): $6
Balloons and homemade party hat: $2
Celebrating your dog's 4th birthday and making yourself look like a fanatic on the internet...

PRICELESS!

Numbered Days

It was cold today, colder than it has been in a very long time. There was a morning in May when I stepped outside in my sweatshirt and pajamas and realized the world had changed, warmed, and I suddenly felt as though I'd drown in all my clothes, drown and then spontaneously combust. This morning, in my shorts and flip flops I realized the world had changed back, that I could see my breath and the air on my bare feet was not just uncomfortable but icy. When I checked the temperature I was shocked to see it read 47˚, the kind of day that requires long socks and a jacket.

There was a breeze on our walk this afternoon and while I tried not to let it bother me, tried to focus on Duncan plodding through the newly cut grass before me, the clippings catching in his ears and cheeks as he bent low to sniff his way through them, it did bother me. There was less leisure to our stroll, little enjoyment in watching the teams on the baseball fields, greater urgency to escape that shrill cacophony they refer to as a high school marching band. As we walked, the sun far away and behind the clouds, I realized that my days of bares toes and sandals are numbered. It will have snowed once by the end of the month as it has every September since we moved here nine years ago. First my feet will hide, then my legs and arms and far too soon only my face will be visible on our walks.

As we waited in the island on Bowles for the traffic to clear Duncan sat patiently at my side looking up at a tiny piece of cotton dancing in the breeze below the leaves. I followed his gaze and saw a spider, tiny and young, still white and almost translucent, struggling to climb its wildly waving thread, moving carefully an inch or two at a time only to catch in the wind and drop lower, its little legs clutching and grasping all the while.

I will clutch and grasp at the last of Summer as long as I possibly can.

Samaras

We walked early, perhaps only to catch the last fleeting signs of August and the Summer we are fast leaving behind. I dread the shift into Autumn, which, perhaps, is the very cause of my fierce love for Summer. I have spent much of the past three months memorizing the colors and textures, the scents and shades of the world because they are the only things which buoy me through the bleeding sunsets of Autumn and the naked bones of Winter.

Little has changed, of course, except perhaps for the sky, which seems to have pulled a little further away, is still big but in a more distant way. Summer skies, intimate and near, heavy as berries, are the kind you can almost reach up and touch, rub with the tips of your fingers, staining them with blue residue. September skies retreat from touch and look down on us at a great distance, cool and reserved, uninterested in our meager goings-on.

It seems only a few weeks past that the samaras were still pink and curling, heavy with juice, the tree limbs drooping under their collective weight. Walking among them, bending down to step through the dusk-lit caves created by the arced boughs on which they rested, I imagined them the fat fleshy thumbs of garden gnomes, captured by marauding trolls in the early hours and hung up to dry like trophies or warnings.


Now they are dust chimes rattling in the breeze, their music and life blanched by August's breath. Many of the trees, standing their full height for the first time in months, have shaken them loose, littering the ground at their feet with fossilized brown paper dragonfly wings.


But many, the sturdy ones, still cling in tight fist-like clusters to the branches on which they've hung for so long, flying in that unique way that belongs to leaves and kites alone. And when they do finally decide to let go and fall, to mingle with the sweet embrace of gravity before they kiss the earth, where they will rest forever, they delight the eye of children, fluttering in splashes of gold which whirl and spin wildly like the rotors of nature's helicopters, softening their landing as they hum the last bars of summer's song.

Two Suns

It rained this afternoon, not much, but enough to cover the street and cause the tires to slush up water in fine misty sheets as the cars passed, a sound that is not without its own peaceful merit. Duncan and I walked an hour after the clouds were swept away to the east, dark and low with lightning just barely visible even in the daylight. The sidewalks had just started to dry around their edges when we ventured to the park. The sun carved a place for itself between the mountains and a new row of clouds that had risen over the rounded tops of the foothills, shining a concentrated layer of gold across the city and into our eyes. The park was vast and empty and strange for a Sunday afternoon, as silent as it gets only after the dark has risen and even the late night Frisbee players have faded into the shadows. There was no tug on Duncan's leash and we walked side by side without haste or destination, comfortable with the laziness of our steps, not caring where we went or how long it took to get there, glad only to be out in the cool, rain-scented air together. Climbing the hill below the memorial, following the path up, with the sun in our faces, the sidewalk before us glowed brilliantly, as radiantly as though there were two suns, one setting from above, one reflected on the wet walk and rising up from below. Through the parking lot at the top of the hill and across the wet grass above the amphitheater, we stood and looked down on the lake. The trees and tall willows along the shore, even the foothills and the city along their base, were black as we gazed into the sun and its reflected twin, moving together at the same pace along the same path, never to meet but always lighting the other's way into the horizon. We stood for a long while watching their progress and as the sun, our sun, the one above, met the black line of the mountain silhouettes, I strained my ears for the sound of the hiss as it extinguished against the damp horizon. When it did not come we turned and walked another long and lazy route home.

Unspoken

I don't know what he was watching. Perhaps the cars on the morning street, almost soft and vast in the newness of the day, cars driven with an absence of haste. an enjoyment of the road and an abandonment of destination. Perhaps there was a butterfly, a small one, the buttery yellow kind that have appeared lately and are barely noticeable at all until they take quick and jittery flutters from one patch of browning clover to another. Perhaps it was the mouse which sometimes scurries along the edge of the patio, attracting the attention of the cats, who sit in a row, their tails jerking without any conceivable rhythm as they watch it climb up one side of the grill and down the other. Perhaps it does not matter what he was watching, only that something in his eyes, something far away, reminded me of my grandfather, of a photograph I'd taken in the last year of his life. We'd been sitting on his patio, enclosed and bigger than the one Duncan and I sat on this morning. Grandpa and I were alone and he'd just fallen silent after talking about the cancer he knew would take him. He turned away and looked long and hard past the pine tree he'd planted when I was six, which towered over the yard, now far too tall to jump over as I'd done the first year it had been in the ground. He gazed out the window at the street and the old school on the other side of it. He did not say anything and I did not ask, but took a picture instead and every time I've looked at it for the past eight years my heart has ached for not asking, for never being able to know what that beautiful, quiet moment held for him. Duncan is not my grandfather, did not even have the joy of meeting him, but the way they looked so intently out into world was startlingly similar, with thoughts never to be spoken, held silent like a love poem to life.

Summer Red

Even though Colorado has been a very blue state this past week, I couldn't help but notice the definite burning red of this afternoon. The politicians and delegates have departed and life and traffic, it would seem, have returned to normal, but because I tend to try my hardest to savor each given moment as something unique, I saw the red burning all around us today.

There have been several fires in the area and the mountains have been obscured in a soft, cottony gray haze, losing their definition and becoming more than they are, not less, memories of mountains, or dreams of them, something far away and close all at once, visible but concealed, always just out of reach. The smoke has been a subtle thing, its scent absent in the morning when the world smells of moisture and green, but thicker in the early afternoons, never pungent, more the scent of a neighbor's backyard grill or childhood summer nights falling asleep in a tent when the fire is dying down, a small lump of red hidden behind a mound of ash, popping and spraying sparks only occasionally. The best part of the fires, if there is actually anything good about them, is the sun behind the smoke paints the sidewalks a dull red, almost a soft pink, and shadows lose their definition, become like wet, brown gauze.

But the burning is not just in the forests around Denver; Summer is nearing its end and somehow manages to burn brighter and harder than it has for the past three months. There is a desperation to its living that is both inspiring and a little tragic, as though all the dreams that haven't been realized are flaring up for one last chance.

In the park, under a cloud shaped like a miles-high question mark, I dropped Duncan's leash and let him amble ahead of me. He's been trained well and doesn't go too far, only about twenty feet before he stops and looks back as if to check in and make sure I'm okay with where he is. He'd done this several times but as we neared the place where we turn toward the baseball fields, he picked up speed and trotted off. As I followed after him I saw a couple, young, probably entering their last year at the high school, entwined around each other on the grass, not kissing, just holding each other and watching the sky change. The boy nuzzled the girl's neck and she dropped her hand familiarly onto his thigh, giving it an affectionate squeeze. They were beautiful, her pale body spooned against his dark skin, the tenderness of their grasp, the relative newness of such physical intimacy. I smiled at them and then realized Duncan was headed their way. When I lay on the grass with him it means we're going to wrestle around each other, and I assume that's what he thought they meant as well.

Their eyes has slipped shut and they did not see him coming. His cold nose peeking into the spot where their cheeks touched must have been a shock for they both flinched and their eyes came open. Dunc's tail wagged and he leaned forward and licked their joined faces. The girl lifted her hand from her partner's leg and placed it on Duncan's shoulder, pulling him closer to them. The boy laughed and sat up on his elbows, reaching one hand for his girl's hand on my dog's back. Their fingers were beautiful, entwined briefly in his red curling hair. I apologized and stepped forward but they shook their heads.

"He's wonderful," the girl told me, burying her face in Duncan's chest. "He's just what we needed. Now we'll remember this forever."

Dreams and Devotion

Although Duncan didn't hide under the bed at my departure this morning, he wouldn't leave it. As I gathered my things, packed my lunch and mixed myself a nice iced chai, he curled up next to Winnie and wouldn't move, and even when I came in to scratch behind his ears and give him a kiss on top of his head he barely stirred. Now that he's gotten a taste of how his days could be spent, knows that not too far away is a land of tall trees, glorious water reflecting all the colors of the day and instant four-legged friendships, where dogs run free and everyone carries a tennis ball or two in his or her pocket, I won't be able to compete. Unless, of course, I call in the troops, which even Duncan, in all his infinite wisdom, is helpless against. They've shared far too many times together, battled afternoon boredom and the conspiracies of the cats, somehow muddled through together on long trips to and from Idaho, been steadfast friends during my weekend vacuuming duty. They don't go on walks with us, and these days several of them––the faceless and limbless ones, especially––have been relieved of duty, but he's fiercely loyal to them and can't resist their call.

As long as these guys are on my side, Duncan will always be true to me, and even though he won't get daily swims and trips to the backyards of my friends where he can consume seemingly bottomless bowls of their dog's kibble, his heart will belong right here at home.

(From left to right: Berry, Blue Bone, Baby, Bah-Bah and Buddy)

Chatfield

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

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

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

At all.

No, sir, not one bit.

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

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

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


It's a promise I intend to keep.

Home

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

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

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

Away

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

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

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

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

The Business of Others

Because the park is no longer our own, having been invaded by innumerable children clad in the most garish of colors, their shirts emblazoned with names and numbers, and their parents, who leer and refuse to get out of the way when Duncan and I pass them on the sidewalks, we decided to stroll down Leawood to the school at the bottom of the hill. It's a nice neighborhood and each time I'm there, especially early in the morning, my heart breaks at the realization that Ken and I were so misguided in our attempt to own a home at Stapleton, one of the most sterile and homogeneous of Denver's neighborhoods. Leawood is an old neighborhood, with lots of big trees––which Stapleton lacked entirely––and houses that look well-lived in and loved, not the cookie cutter nouveau-retro styles of our former area, which was built on the razed property of Denver's former airport. The truth of the matter is, we got caught up in the prospect of living in a new and popular neighborhood when we should have been looking for something more our style, with a big yard for the dog, a quiet street and lots and lots of trees. Leawood is exactly that neighborhood, and it reminds me a great deal––especially when the sun is still low in the eastern sky and the smell of bacon drifts out through the open windows––of the block on which I grew up.

This morning I figured we'd walk down the shady sidewalks where the lavender grows wild in the front yards, play on the school grounds where I could take Duncan off-leash and throw his ball, let him explore the edge of the fences which border the pastures where the horses roam, and perhaps climb on the jungle gym, all without the bother of the soccer hoards and their wretched parents who scowl at me whenever Duncan tends to business.


We'd barely gone more than a few blocks, stopping every now and then to admire the gardens, watch the honey bees frolic amid the lavender bushes, which grow nearly as tall as me, when Duncan stopped to pee. I've always felt rather strange about him peeing in other people's yards, usually against a fence post or even at the foot of their mailboxes, but nothing prepared me for what happened this morning. We were standing near what must've been a spectacular wall of lilacs earlier in the spring, me milling around while Duncan sniffed out the ideal place to drop someone a line or leave a message, when, just as he was about to raise his leg, two men, quite possibly in their early 70's and clad from in golfing attire stepped out of the lilac hedge, both of them buttoning up their trousers.

"Hey," the taller of the two called to me and shuffled to my side, leaving his smaller and more jovial-faced friend behind. Duncan was still propped up on three legs, watching them but nothing else as though curious to see where this would lead before he spilled a drop. "I see your dog is about to mark some territory," the man said, dropping a weathered hand on my shoulder.

"I think so," I told him and smiled.

"Well you know," he said, squeezing my shoulder as though we were old friends, his words bleeding together to form a single word, wellyaknow. "I know they like to pee where someone else has already marked. Is that right?"

"It certainly is," I offered.

"Well you know," he said again and his friend smiled behind him as if he'd spent a lifetime listening to him start every sentence the same way. "If he's looking for a place with a lot of piss you just point him right through that hedge. We just left plenty there for him." With that they both burst into laughter and shuffled on their way. Duncan dropped his airborne leg and looked at me as if waiting for a cue as to our next move. I could only shrug my shoulders and pull him along, right past the spot, which I'm sure, inflamed his nostrils.

Pillows Swept Away

"A cloud does not know why it moves in just such a direction and at such a speed... But the sky knows the reasons and the patterns behind all clouds, and you will know, too, when you lift yourself high enough to see beyond horizons."
(Richard Bach)

We had clouds today. Not this morning, though, when we strolled through the coolest of August breezes, which carried with it the electric scent of wild grass, a sweet top-note of mint infused with the ripeness of all the leaves in all the trees and a bass note of soil, heavy and brown, enriched by a shock of lightning and the thunder which would roll over us later in the day. The air's perfume was nearly overpowering at times, but because the breeze was gentle, the sun not yet too bright and the park still silent around us, we were comfortable and didn't mind the heaviness of the fragrance. The sky was shockingly blue above the edges of the world and seemed to swallow the color of the trees poking into it like bony fingers as well as the hills and mountains which want so much more than to be dark shadows at her base. Only the plains to the east seemed at peace with the sky, and where they met––perhaps fifty miles out––they had reached an agreement, melting one into the other with no clear line of demarcation.

But the clouds, the morning clouds which grew discontent in being so small and too few in number, became restless and as the morning grew warm and passed into afternoon, they surrendered their gentle sheep-backed shapes and flocked together into one enormous wool blanket which rubbed against both ends of the horizon at once. The storm was not long and eventually, by the time Duncan and I ventured out for our evening stroll, the air had warmed again, and only the last of the die-hards remained, curling over the mountains and trying their best to obscure the last of the day's sun. But they were beautiful things and while Duncan ambled about, dragging his leash behind him, I stretched out on the grass, not caring that my shirt and shorts or the backs of my legs grew damp, and watched them do the things clouds do, their silent and slow courting ballet across the heavens.

How simple, it would seem, to be a cloud, and how easy to presume their task is the easiest of all, going where the winds tell them to go, obeying the commands of the seasons, floating far above and out of harms way, watching the world do what the world does. But clouds are poets, not content to be merely what they seem. My clouds, the clouds which piled up and around each other like European islands, had so many tasks they performed all at once that I could only smile and marvel at them while Duncan rolled nearby, oblivious to their presence. They made the shape of an eye whose line of sight glowed fierce and golden all around, and at the same moment they kicked out a leg, pudgy and newly born with the sole of a baby's foot joined at its end, the toes curling and fat at their tips. Their shadows ran down across the hillside, and galloped through the fields before passing over the street and into the golf course on the other side. They swirled and collided like casual lovers, not rebounding but joining, becoming one before passing away, changed but fulfilled and bloated in their middles, tentative and lingering along their edges, yearning for a touch they will never know. They colored the sky gray and gold and white all at once, never losing time with the breeze on which they floated, humming a tune only the birds and perhaps the dogs can recognize.

And then as the sun drifted down low, seeking as she always does the ocean far away, they were gone, leaving the sky as empty as a bed stripped of its linens, even the pillows swept away onto the floor below.

Where do they go when they slip away and who is there to greet them on the other side of the horizon when they arrive?

Seventy-Six Trombones

I have entered the seventh layer of Hell and there's only one explanation: I must've been a marching band director in a past life.

I have always been a person whose entire day is set to music. From the minute I wake up in the morning and get in the shower to the moment I go to bed I am surrounded by music of one kind or another. About the only time I choose not to listen to it is on my walks with Duncan, when I keep the iPod at home and listen instead to the sound of the park or the neighborhoods and trails we wander, but even then there is a natural music which plays: the breeze sifting through the Aspens along the lake shore, the laughter of the children chasing soccer balls across the grass, the thump of the basketballs on the courts, the heavy suck of air as the baseballs fly in the batting cages, swish and metal-on-cement skid of the kids at the skate park. And even on those rare occasions when silence has found me I always have my whistle.

But lately the unspeakable has happened and even though it's only been a week, I am going out of my friggin' mind. The local high school marching band has started practicing again. Sometimes I wonder if these kids attend class at all or if their merciless director just keeps them on the football field out back all day, parading up and down, back and forth, playing the same wretched chords of songs that sounded bad even before they added a litany of brass to them. They are there in the mornings on our 6:30 walks, the sound of the drums keeping time to our steps as the trumpets drift across the park, through the trees, battling the sound of the early morning traffic and construction on Bowles. And they are there again at night, louder and more strangled than they were at the crack of dawn when no one should be allowed to brandish an oboe or a tuba. Especially a tuba! And to make matters worse, they are no good. Downright awful in fact, and whichever sicko is doing whatever it is they're doing to that poor euphonium needs have their fingers removed! There should be laws! I'm just sayin'!

With apologies to John Philip Sousa and Professor Harold Hill, we need to face the facts and be honest: the only people who enjoy the sound of a marching band are its members and then only because they're actually participating. I'm sure even their parents would be hard-pressed to admit they actually enjoy it. After all, how many of these folks attend concerts after their children have gone on to bigger and more important adventures, like working at Starbucks or piercing their eyebrows? Simply put, the music is a form of torture and even on those occasions that call for it (parades, high school football games and the like) it's almost unendurable. When I was young, halftime at football games was not when we hunkered down and listened intently to the band geeks stumble through "Tequila," it was when we excused ourselves to pee or slipped outside to dance in the parking lot to Erasure or Frankie Goes to Hollywood, or hell, even Def Leppard while we drank beer. Even then, engulfed by the ignorance and arrogance of youth I knew better than to stick around for the damn band.

And so now, twenty years later the soundtrack of my walks has been replaced with yet another bad high school version of Fleetwood Mac's "Tusk," along with countless other tunes I have yet to decipher and I just know that if I don't keep myself in check, one of these mornings I'm going to march myself right over there, Duncan trotting loyally along behind me, to rip that damn whip out of someone's hands and do something with it that will ensure the bass trombone player won't be marching any longer.

*Image taken entirely without permission from Laughing Squid

Three Minutes

Three times this week we have crossed paths with The Shepherds, who have now added a giant, black, dusty-looking and slightly mangy poodle to their four-legged menagerie of terror. The only other poodle I've ever encountered bit me, not once, but twice on the same hand on the same day exactly one year apart so although I admire their dedication to book-ending their aggressiveness, I can't say I'm fond of poodles as a breed.

When Duncan and I cleared The Mound today their beat up Blazer pulled into the corner-spot in the lot right in front of us. I'd barely had time to register what was happening when the doors were flung open before the engine had quite idled down, and the three big dogs leapt out directly in front of us. I grabbed Dunc's leash and pulled him away as their people struggled to get their leashes on. We strolled down to the tall grass that rings the big willow––prime sniffing and exploring land for my boy––and milled around a bit while The Shepherds ran over the grass, squatting and pooping with abandon, their companions casting dirty looks over their shoulders in our direction, the mere fact of our presence an annoyance and complication to their evening. Eventually they trotted away, leashless and crazy, running circles around each other, galloping across the soccer field in that menacing fashion I've come to recognize even in the dark and from great distances. As we followed safely behind I kept my eyes on the dogs while Duncan kept his nose to the grass, frantically sniffing out each spot the dogs had marked in their carefree and wreckless romp. It brought me immense joy to see him lift his leg and erase, with one quick spritz, the work they'd done only three minutes prior to our passing. He kept it up the entire time we walked, up across the hill at the skate park, through the picnic shelters and the big playground, and down along the edge of the lake to the prairie dog town, and although I hadn't planned on being out so long, drained as I was from another long day at the bookstore, Duncan's dedication was delightful and as wickedly passive-aggressive as anything I could've cooked up myself. Like papa like son.