Snow Day

It started yesterday morning and hasn't stopped yet.

Having been forced to drive in it twice, I was less than thrilled, but Duncan... well, Duncan could care less. Sure his poor tender feet get packed with ice and his long hair collects dense clumps of snow which require a quick rinse in the tub (which he hates but endures because he loves to be toweled off). For him the snow is pure, effervescent rapture.


This morning's snow is deep and wet and difficult to get through, and rises above his shoulders, and yet it doesn't slow him down. His mouth hangs open and he gulps down enormous quantities of the stuff, breathing it back out in heavy clouds and driving it forward by the force of his joy. He is unstoppable, as a squirrel learned this morning when he plowed through a drift and sent it scampering up someone's screen door to avoid being caught.

And when we're not outside he curls up next to me on the arm of the couch, just as the cats taught him when he was a pup. He sits stoically and watches me and makes sure I notice him looking glum and dour and miserable because we're not outside playing in his snow.

Snow

Duncan has spent many a morning sitting in the window near my desk looking down on the yard and the bunnies who roost in the hedges there. Sometimes Winnie will join him and the two will pass the time together content but silent. Winnie claims not to like Duncan, but every now and then when she thinks I'm not looking I'll catch her nuzzling him, or running her cheek across one of his paws.

I take no great pleasure in the snow myself. I am not a skier, I do not snowshoe and it's been years since I built a snowman. I am one hundred percent Summer and need to be coaxed and prodded to spend any time outside in the snow. Duncan, however, can't get enough of it. We're polar opposites in this regard, so to speak. This morning I caught him staring longingly out the window, but the moment he heard me he turned, leapt up, did his chirping, butt wiggle dance and pleaded with me to take him out.

Being a good papa I did, but I didn't enjoy it as much as he did. And the cold has made me feel older than I did just last night. Spring can't come fast enough.

Not Alone

The morning my grandmother passed away last week I spent some time on the phone speaking with my cousin Cookie, who I have not spoken with in several years. Cook, like the rest of us, is suffering the grief of losing our grandmother, but she is also struggling with the additional nightmare of having recently lost her home (the house my grandfather built) in a fire. She is a brave soul, though, strong and smart, and although it's not immediately apparent how she will manage, I know she will. Her faith alone will carry her through and beyond.

She was grief-stricken, sobbing and frightened and completely exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to race home to Idaho and help her family in any way I could but all I had to offer were my words and my good thoughts carried on the wings of imagined butterflies in her direction. I was still numb from the news my father had delivered only an hour earlier but Cookie was expressing everything she felt that cold Sunday morning.

"I'm so glad you're not alone," she said as she finally began to compose herself. "I'm happy Ken is there for you." We had never discussed my thirteen year relationship with Ken and this was her way of telling me she loved me no matter what, that she understood.

"Oh, Cook, I'm sorry," I told her. "Ken and I separated last February. But don't worry, " I offered after a momentary silence. "I'll be okay."

There was a longer silence and then her grief broke through again. "Then..." she cried, her words coming in big, heaving gulps. "You. Are. Utterly. Alone. There."

I hadn't felt alone until she'd said it and then suddenly there it was, an enormous gulf between me and the rest of the world. There was no one to rush to and throw my arms around, no one who knew my grandmother and could cry with me, no one who understood what a unique and special voice had finally fallen silent.

The rest of the week was extremely difficult, not only because I was grieving but because I came down with the flu and spent much of my time in bed, Duncan and the cats curled around me while I shivered in my sleep. My sister traveled to Fargo to be with my dad, sharing stories and reminiscing, consoling one another. I stayed home and felt sorry for myself, resenting my flu and the anxiety which kept me grounded and unable to travel. And I felt truly, "utterly" lonely, still too numb to cry much, too sick to care.

And then tonight Duncan and I strolled through the park. The soccer kids and their wretched parents were wrapping things up. Duncan had pulled an enormous branch off of the big willow and was happily prancing through the leaves and across the field with it clutched firmly between his jaws. I chased after him and finally settled down next to him while he chewed and gnawed. His face was rapturous, eyes closed as his teeth slid up and down the thick pole, peeling the thin, papery bark away before plunging into the depth of the green and golden wood. He rested one paw on my hand as I laid on my belly next to him. The sun had drifted behind the mountains and while the sky was bluish white the clouds caught the last of its beams and exploded in pink and purple above us.

I don't know how long I slept. It couldn't have been long because Duncan hadn't turned away and his paw was still curled around the back of my hand. The park was nearly empty, though, and the color in the clouds had melted. The sky had darkened just enough that a few stars had begun to peek out. The grass beneath me was warm and even the air had yet to cool. I did not want to lead Duncan back across the street to our small apartment, did not want to stand in the kitchen while I ate alone. I did not want to curl up in my bed tonight with no one there whose arms could fold around me, someone who could kiss the top of my head while I slept. I only wanted to roll over, lay on my back with my good dog's paw resting in mine and watch the stars, remember my grandmother and her laugh, her refusal to smile, the smell of her mint gum.

Duncan rolled toward me, spooned up against me and licked the top of my head. He smiled into my face, that big, hearty warm smile of his. The world may be a lot less friendly without a grandmother there to love, but it is certainly not empty.


I am not alone. And I am very much loved. Thank Dog!

First Snow

It is a hard thing to bundle up and walk in the snow, especially when the memory of sunlight and Summer is still fresh on your arms and cheeks, when the taste of morning dew is still ripe on your tongue. But The Run is a beautiful place, a canopy of amber and red hanging overhead, filtering even the grayest light and turning it gold, catching the snow and making it sing its way through the lingering leaves.

And then there is Duncan––my Duncan––beautiful and eager no matter the weather, thankful for each and every season, reminding me to look beyond my eyes, to feel and rejoice in being alive, to take no moment for granted.

Thank The Universe for the wisdom of dogs and their unbound love of all things, especially us.

While Walking Curt

It's been nearly a week since Duncan and I have strolled through the park. The rain and cold have kept us close to home, playing with other dogs in our vicinity down in The Glen or in the little bowl directly beneath my window. But tonight before I got home Duncan had decided that come hell or high water we'd be visiting the bunnies.

He was perched in my bedroom window when I drove up, his stuffed bunny hanging from his mouth, and although I couldn't see it, I'm sure his tail was wagging, smacking Olive, who likes to stand impossibly close to him at all times, nuzzling her cheek against his. I've watched her take a swish of his tail in the face then turn around and run the length of her back along his belly, heedless of his dancing feet.

By the time I'd climbed the thirty-seven stairs to my door, Duncan had plopped himself in the entryway and had already grabbed his leash, something he has only even done once before. He chirped like a bird, did his happy dance and followed me from room to room while I changed my clothes and grabbed a jacket. He met me at the door, one end of the leash still clutched in his mouth, the other dragging behind waiting to be picked up.

I'd barely done so and opened the door when Duncan pulled me outside and took me for a walk.

A Marked Man

I was late getting home. First I had my boot camp class right after work, then I was forced to stop by the store to grab the pack of Nutter Butters I've been craving all week, and then, because I didn't go yesterday, I had to run to Hero's to pick up food for Duncan. By the time I got home it was dark and Duncan was more than ready to walk.

It was a lovely night, warm and windless. The sky was deep purple, tinged with city-light orange on the horizon but clear and starry deep in its middle where it counts most. The elms, white and stark, and almost completely naked, rose up around the park's perimeter like giant skeletal hands pointing out the lowering Dipper and returning Orion. Far to the north, and just beginning to peek over the western mountains, is the front that brought sleet and snow to southeast Idaho this morning, the same one that will make tomorrow cold and wet. But tonight was perfect and even though my legs were already stiffening up and I desperately needed a shower, I didn't mind an extra long walk with Roo around the baseball diamonds, up to the lake, and then back down to see the bunnies.

Not long into our walk, though, we ran into The Shepherds, who have formed an alliance with every other shepherd and their companion who walk the park. They travel in an enormous pack, sometimes exceeding six or seven dogs, not all shepherds but almost all of whom are big and off leash. So far none of the other dogs have been hostile, but I still feel nervous when our paths cross, especially since it's obvious they've all been told who I am.

The pack split up, but one shepherd and a poodle remained. They trotted up to us and immediately leaned into me when I knelt down to pet them. Duncan sniffed each in turn while both dogs happily licked my face and hands, sniffed my pockets for the organic wild boar treats I keep in there, and doted on me. Roo paced nervously around us, trying to step in, trying to win back my attention, but when that didn't work he did the only thing he could thing of: he raised his leg and pissed all over me.

Not them. Not the cinnamon shepherd who smelled like lavender and wanted nothing more than to press herself against me while her companions watched. Not the black poodle, who kept thrusting her Frisbee into my hand in the vain hope that I would toss it for her to chase after.

No, Duncan stood right next to me and let fly with a hot stream of urine, which zigged up my rib cage to my neck, zagged across my arm and chest, and then dribbled down onto my legs.

Both dogs instantly backed away and Duncan moved right in, rolling into me, pushing his face into my legs and sliding as much of his body against the dry side of me as possible.

He is not mine. We are not each others.

I am his.

Point made.

Tail Held High

Duncan is full of lessons, some more obvious than others.

As the leaves have begun to change, coloring our walks through The Run in ambers and reds, my heart has been breaking for the familiar heat and burn, the scents and noise of summer. Duncan, though, ambles through the shrubs, sniffing out the trunks of the trees while catching burs and thorns in his coat, soaking his face in the morning dew and caking his narrow paws in mud. I slip and slide on the wet grass and shiver in the cold, cursing my lack of a private yard, wishing I could hunker down with a cup of tea for a few more minutes before heading off to work. But Dunc is always happy, squirrel or no squirrel, mud or not. His head may be low, his face drenched, but there's always a very obvious joy about him.



Kind of makes me wish I had a tail. Just to wave it and share with all the world. How wonderful life would be. And perhaps Autumn would be a bit more bearable.

Not Tonight

It has been gray and dreary and the clouds have been low enough that the geese are able to fly unseen through the mist, the heavy beat of their wings the only sound they make as they pass overhead. It has been a week of cold mornings, followed by windy nights which have shaken the buttery leaves from the elms, scattering them across the damp grass. Piss elms, we call them back home, because they are scrawny and spring up like weeds, but also because they are pungent and unpleasant to smell when burned. The Run is littered with them, now nearly naked, their rat-tail boughs and branches lonely against the hollow blue of the September sky. Duncan does not notice as he has been very busy--almost desperate--to tree the squirrels who undulate like sea serpents through the tall grass and the quilting of fallen leaves when he chases them. But I notice, first in the mornings when the crisp air drives the sleep from my eyes and then again in the evenings when the early darkness and smell of warm fireplaces makes me remember all my Autumns past.

Tonight, coming home to a dark apartment, cold because I refuse to turn the heat on, Duncan and Olive met me at the door, sitting as though they'd been there for an hour, shifting restlessly from one hip to the other, glancing at each other as though to say, "It won't be long now" and "Soon." Olive entwined herself around my ankles and Duncan grasped the cuff of my jacket in his warm mouth and the two of them led me to the bedroom where I kicked off my shoes and laid back on the pillows, still warm from where Winnie and Pip had nestled all afternoon. Duncan curled beside me, resting his chin on my shoulder so he could watch my eyes. Olive climbed onto my chest where she touched her forehead to my face, dipping her nose against my lips, purring softly and kneading my chest.

They know how hard Autumn is for me, especially this year. And as we cuddled on the bed, the light yellowing behind the low snow clouds already spilling down the foothills, they both seemed to tell me that tonight was mine, that tonight the wind could tap against the windows and the snow could fall, but they would keep me warm, and their gentleness would soothe these autumn pangs.

Balls

I could have been killed--or at least seriously wounded--while my best friend pranced around gaily, his tail wagging as I floundered in the tall grass, my last breath spent calling for help.

The Run, that narrow strip of land at the back side of our apartment complex which borders the golf course, is not all frolicking dragonflies and dew-sprinkled purple flowers. The morning and evening sun is faint but sweet and the silence is welcome as I trudge along behind Duncan as he snorts through the thick hedges, chasing squirrels up trees and batting at the honey bees who hover over the wild daisies. It's a beautiful little spot which ends at The Glen, where we toss a tennis ball or lay on the hillside watching the clouds drift lazily by above the aspens, but it's more wild and dangerous than I'd ever considered.


This afternoon while Duncan danced against the side of an elm in search of a squirrel who'd only narrowly escaped his clumsy bounding, I stood off by myself, a leash in one hand, a doggy bag in the other, softly singing Nat King Cole's "Nature Boy" and watching the sun sprinkle across the whispy grass and knotted tree trunks. Just when I'd reached that part of the song about the boy being "a little shy and sad of eye but very wise," I heard a strange popping noise in the tree above my head, sharp and fast like a brisk knock at a door. I looked up, momentarily dazzled by speckles of sunlight through the thinning elm leaves and saw the source of the disruption.

I stepped aside as a golf ball ricocheted through the branches and landed heavily against a rolling root, bouncing once before pitching through the grass where it struck the toe of my shoe and finally came to a stop. Duncan immediately lost interest in the squirrel and scooped up the ball in his mouth. It was not the first he's claimed on our walks through The Run--I have a drawer full of the things despite the fact that I don't let him play with them. I reached for him but he danced away and I chased after, finally pulling the sloppy wet thing from his mouth and tucking it into my pocket.

A moment later a second ball crashed through the trees, this one landing directly where I'd been standing only moments before. Duncan lunged for it, but I'd leashed him and pulled him quickly away. As we jogged back home, a dragonfly hovering just over my shoulder, I thought of all the balls we've recovered over the summer, the ones we've stumbled upon without giving the slightest thought as to where they came from, as though garden gnomes dropped them in the wee hours of the morning with the hope that we'd find them. Or the mornings I've sat at my desk nursing a cup of tea while Bob Dylan, Neko Case or The Old Crow Medicine Show played on the stereo, the cats sprawled at my feet in the sunshine, our heavy and well-earned peace rudely broken by the sudden thump of something striking the building not far from my window, a loud thumps that scatters the cats and shakes my art, makes my hand tremble around my mug while Roo whines and peeks meekly out the window.

I thought Gil and The Shepherds were the most we had to contend with. Nope, now we have to worry about golf balls. Killer golf balls raining from the sky.

Happy Birthday, Dunc!

"We are always the same age inside." (Gertrude Stein)

It was Duncan's birthday today so we stopped by Hero's and picked up a new rope toy and a Bully Stick, which is now gone, along with the oatmeal cupcake Chelsea slipped him. After that it was a walk around the lake in the sunshine, a quick, mad rush at a flock of ducks resting on the shore and dinner at home. I made him the same "cake" as last year, although I swapped the raw chicken for rabbit, and topped it with rice, fresh blueberries and drizzles of chocolate. He could hardly contain himself and even let me put a new homemade hat on while he licked the remainder from his nose and cheeks.

Happy birthday, Duncan. Papa loves you with all his heart!

Painted in Amber

The light was old tonight, Autumnal and hollow, yellowed and fraying at the edges like a postcard from a forgotten age. The sky was overcast and gray except for one corner above the mountains where the clouds opened up like the mouth of a wide cup and spilled the most luxurious and somehow muted light I've ever seen. My grandmother once shared with me some postcards she'd collected while living in Germany in the 30's. They were black and white, but painted, like badly colorized movies on Turner Classics, and driving home after work today looking at the sky I couldn't help but remember them and wonder where those cards are now, whose hands have held them, what drawer they've been tucked into, moments, precious but forgotten, painted in amber.

It was a lonely sky, and although it was still quite warm, hot even, it looked cold and made me shiver thinking of taking Duncan out for a walk down Leawood. I climbed the long flights of steps, slipped the key into the lock and turned the knob. The apartment was dark except for a brilliant splash of golden light, so much more vivid than anything I'd seen on the ride home, as though the single ray of sunlight in all the world had found its way into my sanctuary and was waiting for me. Olive was sitting in it, one paw resting on Duncan's blue bone. She meowed softly when I closed the door behind me and entwined herself around my ankles as I set my things down on the couch. Duncan ambled down the hall, stretched and yawned and smiled as he does when he knows a walk is soon to come. The three of moved into the office and sat on the floor in the light together, enjoying the quiet and wealth of the moment.


For awhile, as we sat and leaned against each other, Olive rolling her cheeks and chin first against Duncan and then me, and Duncan smiling and chirping, never taking his eyes off of me, there was no better place to be in all the universe, as if the only sun in eternity was shining its light on us and calling us good, promising that moments like this would never be forgotten.

Not Just a Fountain, Not Just a Ball

They finally turned the fountain on at the park. All summer it has sat silent and empty, an ugly hole in the ground just off the baseball diamonds. Duncan hasn't minded, of course, because he hates the thing. Summers past he's worked very hard at keeping me between himself and the jets of water shooting out of the grates. While children, other dogs, and even I have danced in it, kicking water across the courtyard, Duncan has stood suspicious and fearful on the sidelines, his head low, ears hanging almost in his eyes to avoid even the slightest glimpse of it. I imagine he's enjoyed our walks much more this summer without worrying about the possibility that I'd drag him toward it to watch the water catch the sunlight and listen to the music of it slapping the bricks at our feet.

Last week, however, it came on--like never before. It's always been a rather runty fountain, with the plumes rising barely above my head, but this year they've turned it all the way up, perhaps in an effort to make up for the silent dry months we've gone without it. We've ventured over to it several times, but Duncan has dragged his heels and stayed firmly behind me and out of the way of even the small of drops or the mist drifting up from the base. He does not like it and only really learned to enjoy being wet in the past year. He's tolerated his baths and took to swimming quite well, but the fountain, for whatever reason, has been his own personal Hell.

Yesterday after chasing the bunnies and the sunset across the park, we stepped up to the fountain to sit and relax a moment before heading home for the night. The light had disappeared behind the mountains and the world was blue but still alive with the last sounds and joy of the day. Duncan plopped down at my feet, his back to the water, his eyes scanning the nearby trees for signs of squirrels. I patted his head and tried to get him to at least watch the water. It wasn't until I noticed the stray baseball at the edge of the jets, however, and mentioned it to him that he took any interest at all.

There are few things he loves more than a ball. And this one was just sitting there, unclaimed, pristine and clean, practically begging to be chewed on.

And so I spent the next thirty minutes watching my dog deal with his own anxiety, struggling to overcome his fear and retrieve the reward just beyond his reach. He paced back and forth, stepped as close as he could without getting wet, looked at me, looked at the ball, looked at the stars as if asking returning Orion for his help. He paced nervously, jumped up on me, resting his paws on my chest, barked with raised eyebrows, giving me the look I almost can't resist. He turned away and moved back to the fountain, retreated again. He plopped down on the puddling cement soaking his belly and tail, snapped at the water cascading safely out of range. I dropped his leash and encouraged him all I could, tossing wild boar treats closer and closer to the water's edge and watched as he stretched impossibly far forward to capture them on the tip of his outstretched pink tongue. When he looked resigned to failure I gathered his leash and stepped away but he whined and turned back, so we started the whole process all over again.

He was so close so many times and it reminded me of those last one hundred feet of our climb to The Royal Arch a few weeks ago, before the madness of work took over my life. I remembered sitting on that rock feeling helpless and afraid and how Duncan took control and pulled me up to the top, to that spectacular view of the world, but mostly to my own salvation. So I did what he would've done had the leash been on the other neck. I pushed him. I grabbed his rump and gave it a good solid shove right into the spray and mist.

He buckled down and resisted, of course, spun around and gave me the kind of look I probably deserved, but with the water falling all around him, the damage done, he turned and scooped up that baseball, trotted back to me proudly, plopped down at my feet and shook himself harder than he's ever shaken himself before, which, I supposed, I also probably deserved.

With the ball clenched firmly between his teeth he wagged his tail all the way home, where I toweled him off good and hard, the way he likes it, tossed him a couple of treats and let him chew on that well-earned ball until bedtime.

He was a happy dog, indeed, and maybe tomorrow that fountain will be just a fountain and I'll still be his best friend.

Not Just a Mountain, Not Just a Walk

When I lived in Illinois, or The Shire as I like to call it, all that flatness and rolling green monotony tended to unnerve me after awhile. I'd been born and raised in The West, where the landscape can be desolate and magnificent, where mountain ranges offer shelter and safety, and the people, for all their crazy religious and political faults, are wild and dangerous, but somehow beautiful in their purity. After months in Chicago's suburbs, nothing brought me more joy or peace of mind than returning home to Idaho, driving up to my special spot in the mountains that surround Pocatello and sitting or walking in silence while a summer breeze played with the bumblebees and wildflowers, or a winter wind ravished the junipers and the sandstone cliffs. Mountain Therapy, I called it, and it was so precious to me that only a few hours of it could sustain my mental health for months, or even a year.

When Ken and I moved to Denver ten years ago we spent our weekends exploring the area, driving up to Lyons and Estes Park where we sipped Bloody Mary's at the Stanley Hotel, or visiting Keystone and Steamboat, venturing south to Pikes Peak and Colorado Springs, where the crazies live, driving through the San Juan Mountains and over Wolf Creek Pass, feeling as though the car was flying and not touching the ground at all. Ken had grown up in the Midwest and there was something magical about watching his face each time we rounded a curve in the road and entirely new vistas opened up before us, jutting mountains, treacherous valleys, an endless expanse of desert, sage and antelope.

And then I got sick. I couldn't conceive of visiting the mountains let alone leaving the safety of my home. The anxiety robbed me of much of my ability to enjoy the things which were at the core of who I was. For an entire summer I laid on my couch unable to read a book or watch television or listen to music. Duncan stayed with me, though, and looked after me, offering his weight as a brace when I was so dizzy I could only crawl to the bathroom. When the panic attacks got bad, when my chest felt as though it would explode and my brain throbbed and raced as though it already had, when I couldn't breathe and began doubting my strength and how much more I could endure, he would climb onto the couch, step softly onto my chest and look directly into my eyes, matching his breathing to my own and then slowly, almost imperceptibly take longer and deeper breaths, soothing me and bringing the calm I thought would elude me forever. When I had no faith in myself or my doctors, Duncan stepped forward and reminded me that magic still exists in the world and that not all of it could, or should, be explained.

There have been a hundred small triumphs in the four years since, almost all of them things that most people don't even have to think about, like driving to work, going to a movie, standing with pride in a crowd of two-hundred thousand people at an Obama rally, traveling to and from Idaho in severe weather with only Duncan and my magic feathers to keep me sane. But yesterday, quite unexpectedly, The Universe offered me another chance to reclaim a part of myself I felt had been lost.

Duncan, Olive, Winnie, Pip and I had hunkered down on the couch, pulling the blinds, turning on the AC, trying our best to avoid the heat which raged outside. It was a bright day, hot and dry. The dew had burned off the grass early and I didn't really want to go outside, but after Duncan, sprawled beside me, sighed with boredom and turned to rest his chin on my hip––unsettling poor Winnie, who only barely tolerates him––I decided we needed to try something new. A walk through the park just wouldn't cut it, so before I knew quite what I was doing, I'd started packing water bottles and doggy bags, sunscreen and everything else we'd need for a nice afternoon walk in the mountains. It was time for a little Mountain Therapy.


Moments after making the decision, we were in my car and on the road to Chautauaqua Park in Boulder. I've been there several times, once to see my friend Marc graduate from Naropa, once with Rick on a day when the mountainside was taken over by a mother bear and her two cubs, and once two years ago when Traci had paid me a visit. We had taken Duncan and attempted to climb the trail to the Royal Arch, but Traci is an asthmatic from Chicago (elevation 500 feet) and I was a smoker and the trail was a lot more strenuous than we'd anticipated for a leisurely Autumn walk. We made it halfway, which was a good place to turn around, especially since neither of us was serious about the climb. We simply wanted to be outside where the air was crisp and smelled of pine.


Yesterday was much warmer, which made the shade that much sweeter. The climb through the meadow to the base of the Flatirons was tough in the heavy sunlight, but once we reached the treeline and began the ascent, the air cooled and the breeze coming down the canyons was sweet and gentle. The rocks and eroded trail, however, were not, and as the switchbacks became steeper and more frequent my anxiety began to increase. I poured Duncan water into his fold-up travel bowl and took sips from the bottle, watching as our supply began to dwindle. Halfway up my inner conversation amped up and I began to doubt we'd make it at all. I know my limits––have become well acquainted with them over the course of the past four years--and took no shame in the thought of turning back. But we didn't. We pressed on, taking frequent breaks to rest against the sides of enormous boulders and listen to the silence of the mountains, the call of the hawks and the scurrying of the chipmunks playing tag in the wild berry bushes along the edge of the trail. People often passed us, but once we resumed our march we'd pass them as they rested in their own spots.


It was grueling and at times frightening. As the doubt and panic increased I started worrying not about reaching the goal, but the return hike and the subsequent drive back to Denver in heavy afternoon traffic. Each step up that occasionally nearly-vertical trail became more and more difficult. I began to judge myself based on the ease with which our fellow hikers marched along unaware of the difficulty I was facing, not just physically, but emotionally as well. Their mountain was not my mountain. We were on two completely different journeys, two different paths.


And then, after nearly two hours of marching up steep canyons and back down through winding valleys, we neared the end. The blood was pumping in my ears. The back of my neck was constricted and ached. My heart raced in my chest. Duncan was panting and kept looking at me questioningly, as though unsure of my safety. But we marched on, a small group of people in front of us and a couple out for a leisurely afternoon behind us. Dizzy and on the verge of utter panic, my despair and self-loathing at their peak, I collapsed on a rock and sat taking huge gulps of air as a million thoughts raced through my mind: Why had I done this? Why had I done it alone? Why had I left the cell phone in the car? Why had I not brought more water? Who did I think I was that I could accomplish something like this? Who would help us if something happened? What would happen to Duncan if I was carried down the mountain a raving lunatic?

I shook my head and heard that part of my brain I know too well rise up and speak to me. You don't have to go on. You can turn around. It's not a big deal.

And then, as if in answer, the woman in front of us, the self-proclaimed leader of her group, turned back and saw me. She hopped down a few rock outcroppings toward us and yelled at me. "Come on, man. Get up. You can do it. You've only got three minutes and you're there."

I felt my body collapsing inside itself and shook my head again. "I don't have three minutes in me," I gasped.

She came closer. "Turn around," she yelled at me. "Turn around and look. You're there! Forty-five seconds! Get up now!"

I looked over my shoulder and saw it, the Royal Arch, an enormous stone bridge crossing from one side of the trail over the other. I could not calm myself enough to think, so Duncan, sitting at my feet, panting and watching me, thought for me. His leash was around my wrist and curled tightly in my hand. He jumped to his feet and scrambled up the last few boulders, his feet nimbly catching on each rock and propelling him forward. I had no choice but to follow. I stumbled after him, leaving the water bottle where I'd been sitting. I crawled on all fours up the boulders under the arch, and then suddenly we were at the top looking out on forever. And with my good dog, my amazing best friend at my side, everything stopped as I caught my breath and let it all go.


There we stood at the top of the mountain, the city of Boulder spread out before us, and Denver beyond that, and an eternity of green plains vanishing into a horizon I suspect was Kansas and Nebraska. The silence was loud and unmistakable, even over the soft conversation of the others who'd gathered to sit and marvel at the size of the world. Duncan perched on a rock and licked my calf as I scratched the top of his head and felt my chest fill with air and relief.

While the others whispered and looked out on their well-earned reward, I sat with Duncan and hugged him, actually teared up as I pressed my face into his chest and whispered over and over again, thank you, thank you, thank you. Once again, Duncan had known me better than I knew myself, had faith in me where I had none, had literally dragged me to my own salvation. My climb meant something different––not more or less––than the climb the others had made. I hadn't conquered the trail or the mountain, I'd beat my fear, which has been great and terrible but now seems a little more transparent, something not quite so permanent.


Eventually I was able to compose myself and made small talk with the others gathered beneath the arch. I took a picture of the couple who'd followed us up and promised to email it to them. The man, Jim, gave me his email address, which he was sure I would forget, but have not. That moment is sealed in my memory, every part of it––the shaking of my legs, the burning of my lungs, the sound of the air at that altitude, the colors of the world. They will be a part of my body forever. That climb is now built into me, a piece of my fabric, something which can never be undone.


After a good long while we began our descent, Duncan leading the way sniffing for chipmunks while I smiled into the sunshine. I repeated the stranger's email address like a mantra and before I knew it we found ourselves back in the broad meadow at the base of the Flatirons, the ache gone from my legs and my spirit a thousand pounds lighter. A storm was gathering over the mountains but the thunder, gray and heavy, and echoing off the rocks, sounded like triumph and glory in my ears. I was practically dancing by the time we reached the car, where Duncan and I shared a bottle of water as the first small, hot raindrops spattered against the asphalt and our skin. The earth smelled, like grass and late Spring and I could not contain the emotion inside me.

I am getting better, one small but significant step at a time.

There are much worse things than anxiety in this world, like the loss of loved ones to terrible diseases, or unjustifiable wars, poverty and hatred. My story isn't much, but I'm glad it's mine. Getting sick and then getting better has taught me that no task is too small, that everything has significance and worth, that the destination, however beautiful and rewarding is not nearly as remarkable as the journey.

And that there is nothing--nothing!--better than traveling through this life with a good friend at your side.

Vote for Hero's!

I'm counting on all my loyal readers to do me a favor for Chelsea, the owner of Hero's Pets, Duncan's favorite store. Hero's sells only top-of-the-line products, all organic and earth-friendly, manufactured by companies who are socially responsible and dedicated to providing only the best products for our animal companions. Chelsea is tireless at doing research and can answer just about any question posed to her. She has been one of Duncan's biggest fans, and I, in turn, try to do everything I can to encourage and bolster her business.

One of Denver's local news stations is holding a vote for the best business in Littleton and Hero's was nominated in the category of Pet Supplies. I know most of you don't live in our neck of the woods, but it would be wonderful if you could register to vote (it's quite simple and doesn't require anything of you!) and support Chelsea. The winner receives a ton of free publicity, which Hero's definitely deserves. When they ask for your zip code, simply use mine: 80123.

Please register and cast your vote here. It would mean the world to me. Additionally, it would be great if you visited her site and dropped her an email to let her know how important she's been in influencing Duncan's health and keeping his papa sane and happy. It's the least I can do for her after all the advice, education and love she's showered on Duncan and me.

Thank you!

Round Hole, Square Peg

Duncan has had a busy summer watching the bunnies which have erupted all over the hillside at the back of the park near offices where they store the old soccer and football goal posts. We've watched them grow from tiny little brussel sprout balls of fur into lean and lanky teens, who flirt and then run away. Recently, though a whole new batch of babies have appeared and Duncan took an interest in one this evening on our nightly walk, staring for nearly ten minutes, his tail only occasionally wagging, his jaw firmly shut, his tongued locked safely inside.



After the poor thing finally grew weary of all the attention it hopped into the narrow opening of one goal post and took refuge there while Duncan persisted in his fawning.



It took me nearly five minutes of coaxing to convince him it was time to move on, and then only with a handful of our new favorite organic grilled wild boar in pear sauce glaze treats by the Northern Biscuit Company. You should check them out!

A Known Name

As you can imagine, I've been thinking an awful lot about Gil and Pete and the threat they've become at the apartment complex where we live. It's been a difficult thing to deal with because I have a secret-- my landlords don't know I have a dog. Talking to them about The Gil Situation would mean a big confession on my part, a very high non-refundable pet deposit and a hefty increase in my rent, neither of which would be manageable this year. But I have to consider the safety of others, so I have read and reread the many comments posted on my last entry and have taken your words to heart. And after great deliberation I made my decision.

Yesterday was Rent Day so I stopped by the leasing office to drop off my check and to visit with Lealani, the woman who set up my lease and consoled me when things were rough last February. She's an incredible person, funny and smart, sensitive and warm, and of such a perfect height that draping an arm over her shoulder feels natural and easy. Sometimes after checking the mail I'll stop by the leasing office, not just for a piece of candy or the occasional cookie, but to sit for a few minutes and talk with her, to laugh and smile.

She was standing in the door as though she'd been waiting for me, a wide smile spread across her face. She peppered me with questions about my trip home, the high school reunion, Ken, but when she saw the look on my face she knew something was wrong and pulled me into the back room to talk about it. I don't like feeling like a narc, but I also value not being afraid when we walk, so I told her about Gil and Pete's blatant hostility toward my request. Lealani was shocked, asked if Duncan was okay and then told me she'd never heard of Gil. I was unable to tell her which apartment they lived in but told her where they roam. She shook her head and because she lives on property, told me the next time I see them off leash I am to knock on her door and bring her along so she can witness it and deal with it "in [her] own special way."

The best part is that at this point my rent isn't changing and all is well. And Duncan's name is known.

Here There Be Monsters

It's been over a month since I've walked with Duncan through the winding nameless stretch of grass directly in front of our apartment. That's where Gil roams and I haven't wanted to expose Dunc to that lunatic, red-eyed German Wirehaired Pointer since their last encounter. But the other night, after leaving Brady's, we cut through the yard, which seemed quiet and empty when we first stepped foot into it. And then all hell broke loose.

Gil appeared from nowhere. Pete, his companion, wasn't paying attention while he talked with Sarah and her yellow lab, Ross. Gil charged around the building, stopped short when he saw us and stiffened up. I saw the hackles raise on his shoulders and a moment before he jumped forward he seemed to smile. And then he was running across the yard at us, his head low, the force of his body in his shoulders, his mouth open and ears back. I could only watch while I pulled Duncan behind me and used myself to block Gil. I called out to Pete, bent my knees and braced for the attack. It felt like that scene in "Jaws" when Roy Scheider is the sole survivor from the ship and he's perched on its sinking mast with a rifle watching as the shark approaches for the kill.

I said very loudly, for Pete more than Gil, "I swear to God, if you touch my dog I will kick you in the head."

And then Gil was on us. He swerved around me, grabbed Duncan's flank in his teeth and yanked, growling as he pulled and ripped. Duncan hopped back but Gil followed, lunging for his ears, missing and getting his cheek. They circled around me, Duncan on his leash, Gil free and wild. Ruth had told me only the day before that you should grab a dog's hind legs to pull him from a fight, but I couldn't reach for Gil and didn't want to let go of Duncan's leash. They kept pulling me in circles, Duncan defending himself, Gil attacking, and I wondered where Pete was, why he wasn't doing something. It didn't matter because when Gil lunged at Duncan's throat I swung my foot back and kicked his head as hard as I could.

He sat back a moment, dazed, picked himself up and lunged again. I finally saw Pete, who was frantically trying to grab his collarless dog. Gil was moving so quickly, however, snarling so ferociously, that Pete couldn't get a grip on him. His fingers couldn't catch on that wiry coat and kept slipping off.

So I kicked him again, yelling Gil's name, demanding he sit. He snapped at my shoe, leapt at us again and wound up with my foot in his rib cage. Hard.

That got him. Gil fell over, which gave Pete time to throw himself on top of him and pull him away. Sarah was standing helplessly nearby holding Ross. I handed her Duncan's leash and stepped up to Pete, who held Gil but kept his head down.

"Put a goddamn leash on your goddamn dog!" I yelled. Pete didn't say anything, wouldn't even look up. "This is the fourth time your dog has attacked us. I'm sick of it! If I see him without a leash again I'll report you to the leasing office and the police."

Pete nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sarah released Ross, who hurriedly sniffed Duncan to make sure he was okay. Sarah smiled a sad smile as I thanked her, took Duncan's leash and walked him home to inspect him. He was frothy with Gil spit but there wasn't any blood. I dried him off, we cuddled on the floor and all was well.

The next morning I actually felt bad for kicking Gil. I'm a dog lover and I kept replaying the scene in my head looking for some other way it could have been handled. Brady and Ruth both assured me I'd done the right thing, that the fault was with Pete for not leashing his dog. I agreed, but I kept wondering how I'd feel if I watched a stranger kick Duncan in the head and ribs. I finally decided that the next time I saw Pete I was going to talk with him, apologize for kicking Gil and work to reach a peaceful agreement.

And then came last night. We'd strolled down the Run, played in The Glen and were on our way home, skirting the edge of the winding yard where Gil roams, the once nameless grounds where Duncan and I used to watch bunnies in the morning, where he plays with Sophie, where we stood down a coyote. After two years of not knowing what to call it, I now call it The Lair.

Again, Gil appeared with Pete right behind him. I stopped and watched to see if Gil was finally wearing a collar or leash, neither of which he was. I stood dumbfounded as he trotted back and forth, head high, chasing a ball Pete was throwing. Then he stopped, turned and stared at us. I took a step back but Pete whistled and Gil sat down.

"Is he on a leash?" I asked.

Pete held up a leash, coiled around his hand but not attached to Gil. He dropped a bag of Gil shit in the garbage can, turned away and snarled at me over his shoulder, "Get fucked."

Apparently Pete doesn't play nice either and I no longer feel like apologizing.

Reunion

I came to Pocatello--my first trip home in the summer months in five years-- for my twenty-year high school reunion, traveling across the windy and dust-blown Wyoming landscape with Ruth as my trusty navigator and Duncan as our loyal, panting backseat passenger, listening to 80’s tunes as we went. I have anticipated and planned last night for a very long time and although I’ve spent months exercising and eating well, doing my best to look and feel good, nothing could have prepared me for the quiet surprise of the evening. Even though Duncan was home with my mother, far away from Pocatello’s infamous Green T cowboy bar, he was very much with me.

I got out of Pocatello as quickly as I could manage. It is not a bad place, just not the kind of place that offers the sort of opportunities I’d imagined for myself. And although a part of me would love nothing more than to move back home to this quietly growing valley, I probably never will. It’s a safe place, a nice place to raise children, but between the dominant religious sect and political party I can’t really imagine making an entirely satisfying life for myself here, which is sometimes a very painful thing to realize, missing my family and friends as I do, wanting to lean on them when times are difficult, being unable to reach out for their embrace as often as I’d like. I have felt detached from home since that very first Christmas back from college when I realized that life and people move on with or without you, sometimes even in spite of you. The people I grew up with and have known since I was a very young child have become more than a bit of a mystery to me and there have been times when I have felt as though I don’t know my way around, don’t recognize a single face, have never lived here at all.

And then last night I stepped into my past the moment I stepped through the doors of that bar, coming face to face with all those people who I was sure had forgotten me, people I had somehow convinced myself flipped through the pages of the year book and paused on my photo only to think, “Who the hell is that?” It was like a waking dream and each step forward brought me into contact with people I was shocked to see and who were just as shocked to see me. As I moved through the crowd, stopping every few feet to speak with people, to hug old friends, to flirt and reminisce, the strangest, most unexpected thing kept popping up: people seemed to know Duncan just as well as they knew me--people I hadn’t seen or spoken with in ten and twenty years.

“I am so glad you’re here,” they said. “I’ve looked for you for years, and then suddenly I found your blog. I read about you and Duncan all the time! Did you bring him with you? Is he here in Pocatello?” I didn’t know how to react. The first time I was flattered but by the fifth or sixth time I started to feel overwhelmed. Not only did people remember me––had even searched for me, the quiet, shy drama geek––but they knew intimate details about my life, returned to this small, safe place on the internet to learn more and more about me, and had grown to love my very best friend in the whole world in ways I could not have foreseen.

Even though Duncan did not walk with me last night he was somehow still there, connecting me to my past and present in a startling and powerful way. And after it was over (my friends and I actually closed Pocatello’s premier cowboy bar, the place I’d been most terrified to set foot in!), after I’d driven home, overwhelmed and anxious for today’s events, Duncan was waiting for me, joyous and beautiful, sincere and loyal to his core.

I feel like the luckiest person in the world, for having a home to return to, for the people who remember me and enjoy spending time with me, for my incredible family and for the dog who loves me for everything I am and in spite of what I am not. I wish--almost desperately-- there was some way to tell him this, to make him understand how much he is loved, how firmly he has planted me in the world, how many words have been written about him, by myself and others, how greatly he is loved.


Perhaps I will take him for a walk and hope the sunshine and birdsong, the green on the hills and in the grass will whisper these things to him and bring as much joy to his heart as he has brought to mine.

Irony

It has been five years since I've been here, but I can not remember an Idaho summer this green. It is impossibly green for July, a green so thick and heavy that in some places the mountains appear nearly black, especially early in the morning or in the evening as the sun sinks into the reservoir west of the city. My corner of Idaho, the place I was born and raised, is a brown and yellow expanse of land, broken up by rolling hills and small mountains, heavy black chunks of lava rock and vast flowering potato fields. It is somehow desolate and comforting all at once.

My mother lives south of Pocatello on a nice chunk of land that backs up against the mountains. Her backyard is a mountain, dotted with tall clumps of sage and wide stands of juniper, with deep washes that run down either side of the property. Normally a visit this late in the summer finds the tall grass long since yellowed and crisp, the flowers faded and a bit wilted and the air sharp and hot in the lungs. This year, unlike any year I've known, heavy rains have fallen nearly every day, prolonging Spring and cooling what is typically an unbearable July, keeping the air fresh but dry, fragrant and easy on the nose. Everywhere I look I see green, tall and limber, as alive and tender as May.

Several weeks ago a massive storm gathered near The Gap, the place my mother lives where two mountain ranges come together, creating a narrow valley. Storms often move through the valley and meet these two enormous walls of land and rock and back up on themselves. But this storm swirled and grew in force until it erupted in one of the most fierce microbursts mom has ever seen. Flash floods raged all around as water spilled down the mountains and into the washes on both side of the house, flooding her backyard and running down into the street, which became a river.

Last night after Duncan and I arrived, tired from a long day's travel across Wyoming, we were warned to stay off the mountain because the flood pushed the snakes down lower than usual. My mother, working her amazing gardens and flowerbeds has encountered several, and the neighbors have reported killing rattlers. Duncan has never been to Pocatello in the summer,and his only experiences on the mountain have been in the deep snow. He loves it up there and I've been promising him we'd trek all over. Mom and Kevin's warning was more than a little disappointing.

This morning before I took Duncan for his walk, while mom was getting ready for work, she warned me again. "I wouldn't take him up there," she said. "He's just so curious and I'd hate for him to poke at a snake, especially a rattler."

I nodded and listened, but once she was gone, my dog gave me that look and so we grabbed Zeus, the friendly Shepherd pup from across the street and went up the hillside, running through the juniper, staying out of the sage where the ticks lurk, up and down the hill, back and forth. Duncan was ecstatic and it was all I could do to keep him close. I could stand and watch him run and explore for hours. His enthusiasm and appreciation for all things, old and new, is remarkable.

The morning eventually began to wear off and the sun grew hot. We climbed back down, south of the house to the road, where we walked down the middle, Duncan admiring the stink bugs scurrying for the grass line, and me admiring him.

And then there it was, spread out right in front of us, a long thin snake, tan with black diamonds on its back. I froze, gasped and being terrified of snakes, did a full body quiver. Duncan stopped and stared at the horses, oblivious to the snake directly in front of him. I tightened my grip on the leash and pulled him back close to me. I had no idea what kind of snake it was, and although I was pretty sure its tail didn't have a rattle, those diamonds made me nervous. The snake, of course, did not seem to even notice us. Its tongue spiked out once and only reacted when I moved my hand, sending a shadow across its field of vision, it reared back and looked right at us, capturing Duncan's attention. He bent forward and sniffed it's thin tail, nudging it with his nose, causing the thing to slither a few inches forward. Duncan's tail exploded in joy and he looked ready to pounce.

Duncan was convinced he'd found the ultimate stick, and before I could react, leaned down, scooped up its tail in his mouth and prepared to trot away. I yanked hard as the snake coiled up, startling him. He dropped it and leapt back, his eyes never leaving it as it slithered across the gravel and under a tall clump of lavender.

I could hardly wait to tell mom that the danger was not on the hillside but right in the middle of the road where she'd urged us to walk.

While Washing Duncan

I think Duncan rolled in something dead last night. If it wasn't dead it should've been. It certainly deserved to be.

But then if he hadn't rolled in whatever it was, I wouldn't have been mistaken for a twenty-two year old by the young man--nay, boy-- who worked at Wag 'N Wash where Duncan got his bath.

While my friend Rex and I stood outside chatting late last night, the dogs circled around the trees, mingling with the moths and occasionally vanishing into the shadows for a few moments at a time. Obidos, Rex's Chow/Shepherd/something else mix was good and stayed relatively close, coming when called and keeping his nose close to my pocket where I kept the bag of treats. Duncan, however, crawled down into the lower levels of Hell where he found the most disgusting thing imaginable and decided he wanted to share it with me, a surprise he waited to spring on me until he climbed into bed and nestled down against my pillow. Needless to say, he was banished from the room and pouted in the living room all night and well into the morning.

It has been a hectic day and the rest of the week promises to be just as crazy. You see, my friend Ruth is flying in from Minneapolis on Wednesday so that Thursday morning we can hop in the car and drive to Pocatello where we will celebrate our twenty year high school reunion. We're very excited, but of course these things tend to bring up some silly concerns about age and mortality and other such pleasantries. Naturally an adventure of this magnitude requires a lot of prep: an oil change, a car wash, a hair cut, cleaning of the apartment, laundry, packing, making arrangement for Ken to tend to the cats, and all the rest of it. Discovering that your best friend smells like rotting carcas dipped in Linden dust tends to alter the plans considerably.

So tonight, after working late and missing my chance to get an oil change, I raced home, grabbed Duncan, took him to Hero's to buy enough raw food to see him through our trip home, and then headed to Wag 'N Wash where I discovered I'd missed the last chance to give him a bath. I pleaded, offered to clean up my station and gave them the best puppy dog eyes I could manage, even explaining that this was the one chance I had before tossing him into my car for a nine hour drive to southeast Idaho. Finally, in utter desperation I made them actually sniff him, at which point they cracked under the pressure and gave me a tub, a hose and a supply of freshly washed towels.

And while I washed Duncan, spraying him and kissing his nose as he whined and looked at me like I was torturing him, the nicest young man--nay, boy--made our acquaintance, offering a few pointers and helpful tips while standing awfully close and asking all sorts of questions,which eventually led to me revealing I was venturing home to attend my twenty-year high school reunion.

He cocked his head. "You graduated in '89?" he asked. His eyes grew wide and he stepped back. "That's the year my parents graduated."

It was almost like getting kicked in the nuts, only not as pleasant.

"Sorry, man," he stammered. "I thought for sure you were my age, maybe a little older. Seriously. I thought you were twenty-two."

"You're very kind," I told him. "But you're too late."

"I'm eighteen, " he offered and I pretended not to know what he really meant. And even though I can still hear those words ringing in my ears, That's the year my parents graduated-- a sound not unlike the time I hit an elk and heard the imagined echoing crunch as it smashed against the side of my car for weeks afterward--I have to admit I smiled all the way out the door, Duncan, clean and fluffy, prancing at my side.

It may have been twenty years since I was in high school, but I still have it. Oh yeah.

Now if only I can find the time to get an oil change.

Goodbye Riley

My heart is breaking a little bit this morning. Last night we learned that Riley, Duncan's oldest friend, crossed The Rainbow Bridge suddenly and unexpectedly.


It was four years ago this week that Riley, who I'd known casually for some time, came to stay with us while Heather and Emma, his companions, were out of town. He was a big dog, wide and tall with a slow, lackadaisical gate and a face and heart that were without malice. He was a cuddler and one of the sweetest creatures I've ever wrapped my arms around and snuggled my chest and face into. He and Duncan hit it off right away, and although Duncan was still very much a puppy at the time, Riley was kind and patient with him, firm and also fun and a bit mischievous.

Over the course of the four days Riley stayed with us, he taught Duncan every one of the bad habits my boy now possess: climbing up on the counter, begging for food with the droopiest, saddest, most malnourished puppy dog eyes possible, barking at the door, chasing the cats. Most of them I have worked hard on removing, but when Dunc is sly it's because the Riley in him is coming out.

Last night I returned home to learn that Riley was gone Heather had found him on his side, his breathing labored. He was rushed to the vet where he passed shortly after arriving. When Heather called me we spent a good long time together crying and I told her, "He was so brave and strong for you. He didn't want you to worry about him and he didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. In a way, this was his final gift to you. He was very brave."

It was ten years ago this week that Ken and I moved to Colorado, leaving our two Goldens, Nikki and Ashley, with his family. We were dogless and miserable. Riley was the first Golden we got to spend time with, the first dog we befriended before bringing Duncan home. He loved us and gave us exactly what we needed when our hearts were sick from the absence of our own dogs. I will always be grateful to him for that, even when Duncan tries to sneak some food or puts his paws on my counter. From now on out, each time he does, rather than scold him I'll say hello to Riley and send a little blessing in his direction.


"All the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle." (Saint Francis of Assisi)