Parliament Serenade

I missed what may very well be the last good day of the year. It was sunny and clear and warm––over 70˚!––and even though my desk at the college is in the darkest, coldest corner, a bleak place without windows or fresh air, Duncan and I were able to enjoy the night. We ventured down The Run, an exercise we've been without since last week's snow and the early darkness. It's become a tricky spot to walk; the steep angle of the north-facing hillside has turned treacherous and slippery under the ice, and too few people are picking up after their pets. Instead we've returned to the park which the high school marching band and soccer hoards have finally abandoned. But tonight, with an orange sherbet sky and warm weather, we trudged through our Run to the Glen.

Duncan was exuberant like I have not seen him in weeks, chasing and romping with two little rabbit-sized pugs he's befriended lately, hunting down stray golf balls (three tonight!) and running back and forth, his body stretched thin and low to the ground, his legs churning and rustling up the leaves, leaving a wake behind him. Occasionally he'd skid to an abrupt halt in a pile of leaves, slide across their brittle backs, kick and fling them up in the air where they'd rain down around his smiling face.

At The Glen I tossed his ball back and forth but the leaves from the aspens have accumulated and the ball was too easily lost among the quilt of their bodies. So we rassled and chased each other up and down the bowl in the earth instead, running rings, jumping back and forth, weaving among the trees. Duncan demanded leaves so I tossed them at his head causing him to rear up and dance among them on his two hind legs before they settled back at his feet.

And then there were the owls. I've laid awake in bed these last few nights trying to sort through all the things in my head, and the owls have been with me, calling to each other outside my window, singing a song only the trees and the night have learned. They roost high in the cottonwoods behind my building, surveying the tall dead grass that borders the golf course, their eyes watchful for the bunnies we chase in the afternoons. Mostly they are invisible, but when I do spy them in the minutes before dawn, their bodies, tall and wide, look like the silhouettes of nests or gnarled knots and were it not for their bobbing horned heads I would miss them entirely.

Tonight there were three of them gathered in the aspens above us. One called down and was answered by its companions. Duncan cantered to a stop and craned his head back to watch them watching us. They continued their conversation, back and forth, back and forth, and even when Roo leaned up against the smallest of the trees they did not fall quiet. I plopped down next to him, buried my sneakers in the leaves, laid back and watched the night come on––orange turning to raspberry then to indigo––and basked in the loveliest of dusk serenades. I could have––and probably should have––spent the night there, Duncan tucked into my side, one paw on my chest, his eyes turned toward the treetops.

Bagged

The poop bags are generally pretty good. They're bright and green and are emblazoned with a happy cartoon of two dogs standing around a steaming pile of their own residue. I've never had a problem with them. The worst that can be said is that sometimes they're a bit tricky to open, especially if it's cold out and you're wearing gloves. But other than that I couldn't ask for a more reliable and easy to use product. They're even biodegradable!

Tonight after an hour at the gym, my body already stiffening up and this one bitch of a muscle screaming at me in my shoulder, Duncan and I walked down to the little enclosed "dog park" at the other end of the complex. It's smaller than The Glen but it's lighted and fenced in and much more user friendly on nights like tonight when all I want is a quick, painless thirty minutes outside with the dog, followed by an extremely hot shower, a beer and a pizza (so much for the hour with my trainer) and a movie on the couch until I pass out.

Duncan took his time sniffing around and prancing about as he is wont to when he knows I can hardly move and will be doing my best Frankenstein's Monster impersonation tomorrow when I walk. First he strolled the perimeter of the yard, sniffing back by the shed where they keep the weed whackers and holiday lights. Then he circled the wiry, little saplings, raising his leg and spritzing each before moving on to the park bench and doing the same to all four of its legs. I stood around, bouncing on my heels and shivering in my jacket as I waitied for him to poop. When he finally did, he chose the furthest and darkest corner, moving off to the side when he'd finished to grin maniacally while watching me shuffle down to him, dodging poop left behind by the dogs of less courteous neighbors.

I reached into my pocket and grabbed one of the several wadded up poop bags I take with me everywhere. I am to poop bags as old ladies are to tissues up the sleeves of their sweaters. I take them with me everywhere. If we're ever out together, you and I, on a hike, or a road trip, shopping at the mall, eating at a restaurant and you find yourself in dire need of a poop bag, I've got you covered. Trust me.

It was dark in that corner of the yard and not even the light from the passing cars was much use. I fetched a treat from my other pocket and slipped it to Roo who took it and ambled off leaving me to clean up after him. A breeze kicked up, stirring the leaves and rattling the twig trunks of the twin saplings. Their shadows swayed back and forth across the crisp, yellowing grass, the moon painting them as pale, bony fingers pointing me in the right direction.

I slid my hand into the bag and reached for the small pile. Since I put him on a raw diet last year, Duncan's poops have been small and hard, shaped like nearly-perfect balls, and never take up very much space in the bag. They're quite manageable, almost cute even, compared to the smoking behemoths I see other dogs leave behind. Still, not noticing the hole in the bottom of the bag and grabbing Duncan's quaint little pile, really digging in and getting it under the nails, was no more pleasant because they're shaped like big peanut M & M's.

It took me a moment. I've grown quite accustomed to the heat, but the moisture and the clearly rendered texture was something new. It was only when I felt them shift and roll down my fingers and into my warm palm that I gasped and ran like a little girl to the nearest garbage can, Duncan chasing after me and batting at my heels like we'd invented a new game.

Sometimes the glamor of my life is almost unbearable.

Softened

My favorite nights are the ones that smell like fabric softener. It seems that no matter how cold the air is on our faces, passing through a cloud of someone's fresh laundry warms us instantly. Tonight everyone must have been tending to the chores they neglected over the long Halloween weekend for the smell of Downey got thicker and heavier the further we got from home. It followed us across the street and lingered faintly on the tree-lined island running down the middle of Bowles. Occasionally the wind wafted it our way as we circled the darkened baseball fields, sloppy with snow melt, silent and haunted. It floated after us as we climbed the hill overlooking the lake, Dunc dragging me behind him. The night was complete and solid by then, and not even the peaks of the mountains glowed with the last of the day's sun. Standing high and looking down on the reflection of the lights of Littleton spread out before us like towns seen at midnight from airplanes, he leaned into the breeze––which did not smell of coffee from the Starbucks or french fries from the restaurants on the far side, but clean and warm, like something carried with us in our pockets. He closed his eyes, prompting me to do the same. Together we stood and breathed. Just breathed. And drifted through the warm scent of home and memory and companionship.

Calling All Angels

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It was a lonely day. The snow has started to retreat and the sky was blue and warm, but try as I might I couldn't turn the constant drip drip drip of the ice melting off the eaves into anything other than the tick tick tick of an endless day of solitude.

By the time the sun had set and darkness had arrived earlier than I'd been prepared for, after I'd eaten my dinner standing alone in the kitchen, the lights turned down low, Duncan laying at my feet, I felt awfully sad, without anyone to distract me and help my heart feel light. Perhaps its the turning of the season, my first Autumn alone in thirteen years, or the passing of my grandmother, but I felt terrible and watched and listened to my phone not ringing, feeling as though the streets were empty and I was the only one left in all the world. A glass of a wine, a hot shower and an early bedtime did not help.

I laid awake watching the shadows of the barren branches of the linden tree outside my window dance across the ceiling. Pip curled into my shoulder and Olive rested a single paw on my forehead. Duncan was coiled up tight on his pillow, snoring and twitching in his sleep. He whined each time he heard me shift and turn, and finally stretched up, eased toward me in the darkness and felt for my nose with his own.

Sleep was fruitless, so I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt and my tennis shoes and took him outside. The moon was bright in the empty sky and because we were alone I didn't bother with his leash. He followed me down the stairs and across the patch of thin ice at the bottom before crossing the parking lot to the patch of grass where he could stretch and tend to business. I watched the stars and began to hum softly to myself, a song I've known for a very long time but had forgotten about until that moment.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone
calling all angels
calling all angels
we're cryin' and we're hurtin'
and we're not sure why...
then it's one foot then the other
as you step out onto the road
how much weight? how much weight?
then it's how long? and how far?
and how many times before it's too late?
(Jane Siberry, Calling All Angels)

My iPod was still in my jacket pocket, so I pulled it out, found the song and listened, singing softly as Duncan led me across the muddy grass. The streets were silent and pale in the moonlight and I could hear the drip of water from the trees in the park, from all over my small corner of the Front Range it seemed.

Duncan pulled me through the soupy bog to a deep patch of receding snow and looked at me a long time in that wondrous and understanding gaze of his, and as the song's chorus rose up in my ears, he rolled onto his back, his weight cracking the hard top layer, his stick legs reaching for the sky as he wiggled softly back and forth, never taking his eyes from mine.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone

And then, as he stood up and leaned his damp body against my legs, I saw the snow angel he'd created for me, shimmering white and blue in the darkness, his warmth still melting into it. The tears came cold and sweet to my cheeks as he turned and led me back home, up the stairs and back inside where the cats met us at the door.

How is it that with such a miraculous companion I must constantly remind myself that I am never, ever alone, that my angel lives and breathes by my side every day of my blessed life?

Brothers

My bed was strangely empty this morning. Typically three cats curl around me in various positions while one big red dog takes his share out of the center, sometimes horizontally, sometimes diagonally. It can be tricky navigating the shoals of Dreamland and on more than one occasion my companions have heard me complain that just once it would be nice to be able to stretch out.

Last night was such a night. They all followed me to bed but at some point during the night Winnie departed to reclaim her familiar post on the back of the couch. Olive decamped to the bathroom where she curled up in the bathtub (which she has only recently discovered and become enamored of, a bizarre but somehow fitting arrangement for my strange, owl-eyed girl). Duncan quite often leaves the bed to crawl beneath it and spend the night snoring, or to cuddle up with his giant Pooh Bear on the fancy bed roll Ken and I bought for him the day after we first brought him home. I was more than a little surprised at my lack of Pip since he rarely leaves my shoulder, where he rests his cheek against mine all night long. Honestly, waking up alone and unfettered was not quite the glorious, magic-of-the-open-road feeling I'd imagined. My small futon seemed lonely and a bit cold, and suddenly bigger than I thought it could.

A quick inspection of the apartment proved me correct on my assumptions about Winnie and Olive, although Olive was not sleeping in the tub but hovering over the drain batting at it with one wet paw. Pip and Dunc were not hard to find at all and when I did I decided we could postpone our morning walk until their highnesses were good and ready.

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.