Playing Dead

There is not a moment I am outside with Duncan when I am not carrying a handful of treats, from the pumpkin or apple graham crackers that are quite popular––not just among the dogs we know, but with the humans as well, myself included––to the crunchy liver-flavored bones and the softer turkey ones with the jellied pumpkin stripes. My hands are treat-scented and flavored and Duncan and the cats are forever thrusting their noses into them in hopes of sneaking one. My friends have often joked that if I died alone in my apartment I'd be discovered with my fingers gnawed to the bone while the four-leggers looked on innocently but with full bellies.

Tonight on our walk Duncan plopped down in a sunny patch of grass while I hovered over him, impatient to get home and start dinner. I tugged on the leash once or twice but he wouldn't budge, so I did what anyone would do: I played dead. I fell beside him, eyes mostly closed, tongue lolling out of my mouth, arms and legs limp while I held my breath. He studied me a long moment then turned his attention to my cupped palm and the goodies hidden behind my fingers. Through half-closed eyes I watched him look first at me, then to my hand then back to me as though deciding what whether or not to rescue me or to go for the goods. I could see him weighing his options. After standing up and sniffing my face and nudging me with his paw to confirm my sudden demise he went straight for the hand, nudging it open to reveal the goodies for which he'd been hoping. He looked at me once more, turned to my hand and in one quick, fluid motion, dove for it, slurped up the treats, licked his lips then turned to the pocket where I keep a big fat bag of the things. He nosed it once or twice then laid down, curling himself around my head, licked my face, placed a paw on my chest and whined.

And that was it. I was up, kissing his face, hugging him, laughing and reaching into my pocket for more goodies. I got another lick and then he was up, running circles of delight around me.

He does care for me! Or maybe he cares that I'm still around to dispense even more treats. I'd like to believe it's the former option.

The Color Purple

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. (Alice Walker)

There is a place in the corner of the park not far from where the bunnies roost. It rests against a tall but gentle hill on the back side, where a wide circle of crab apple trees grow, short and squat like pretty soldiers standing at ease. While most of the white blossoms have browned and curled and fallen away, littering the ground around the trunks of their trees like rusted snow, the purple blossoms have hung on, growing brighter and smelling sweeter each morning. It is a quiet spot, one Duncan and I have spent innumerable hours enjoying, laying in the tall grass watching the fluff drift from the cottonwoods on summer afternoons or basking in the glow of the lights above the baseball diamonds on hot nights when the sound of a ball striking a wooden bat is best enjoyed.

As happens so often, the moment we left the apartment Duncan had a destination in mind, a place to lead me to, a moment to share. He slowed as we approached the ring of crabs and I stopped to admire a clump of purple pansies growing in a line along the edge of the maintenance road. Clear drops of water clung to the wrinkled, lion-faced petals, which clutched them back as tenderly and protectively. The sun dipped behind a cloud and the water turned silver and reflected the sky above. It took my breath away but Roo, who grows restless when he's on a mission, pulled me away with one short, sharp bark. After a few moments I relented and followed him into the small grove of purple-flowered trees where he sat suddenly and with purpose among the clover.

And then it happened. The sun peeked out and a breeze spilled down over the top of the hill and rushed over us like the slow cascade of a warm waterfall. The trees stirred, the boughs and branches rang a wooden chime and the purple petals took flight, gusting first up and then sifting down over us, radiant in the burst of sunlight, twisting and spinning in the air, a violet shower of sweet smelling snow flakes that dotted our heads, alighted on our shoulders and backs, danced around our feet. Duncan looked up at them, rolled onto his back to show them the softness of his belly, his long, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth while I reached into the air and let them fall onto my open palms where they gathered like wishes waiting to be wished.

The Overlooked

"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies." (Mother Teresa)

It was a big, fat juicy thing, the lone dandelion lucky enough to survive the last visit of our landscaping crew, and for a good long while this morning it was all that mattered. Duncan and I strolled down to the Glen this morning, a place we pass through numerous times a day but haven't spent much time enjoying lately. Rather than make our usual rounds we decided to simply lay on the hill on our bellies and watch the shadows move through the cool mat of grass, delight in the paths of the ants as they struggled up one blade, down the other side only to stumble across a stick, bigger in their world than a fallen tree in ours. I wanted to pluck it as my grandmother taught me, and wipe its lustrous head across my nose until it turned yellow with its buttered powder, but I refrained. It was gorgeous and enormous, a whole world unto itself with its bright petals and curling stamens, and even though it is considered a weed I found it no less magical than the tips of the blossoms in the trees, which are inexplicably far more revered.

 

And so while Duncan licked the sticky seedlings from his feet I watched a dandelion be a dandelion and the blossoms be blossoms and reminded myself once again that there is beauty in everything, especially in those things most easily overlooked.

No Small Thing

"The world will never starve for wonder, but only for want of wonder." (G.K. Chesterson)

I napped. A long one late in the afternoon, with lazy dreams that left my arms and legs sluggish and slow to move and my head clouded. But it was delicious and sweet and a sunset walk with Duncan in the park, nearly empty, was the perfect coda to this day. So he led me across the street to toss the ball and watch him gallop into the setting sun, vanishing from my vision into its honeyed glare, low and caught, as I prefer, between the silver-lined clouds and the hazy shadow of the mountains, painting the world in a golden brilliance for which words have yet to be written or uttered. The air was warm and the scent of the grass and blossoms lingered, unmoving and rich, as though waiting to be inhaled and savored.

And as we laid in the grass, my head resting against his belly, his tail draped across my shoulder, a most wonderful spring shower, hardly more than a trickle, seen more than felt, its gold streaks punctuation marks flashing in the softening light, dappled across the park. We turned our faces skyward, into the smear of a grey cloud wandering quietly past, our eyes closed but lit with the last light of the day, and just sat, not thinking, unmoving, bathing in the settling silence and glory of this blessed night.

"Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the sky, 

to have loved, to have thought, to have done?" (Matthew Arnold)

The Whale

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors,

there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night. (Rainer Maria Rilke)

It is a reckless and early Spring, the first we've had in a long time. It came on us a few weeks ago when a soft green halo appeared among the stark branches of the trees, little more than a smoky haze that simmered and grew into a fog as the days passed and lengthened. And then the explosion of color, first from the crab apple trees, then the lazy, drooping tulips, and the pansies with their stern, lion faces. And when the pressure from their peers was too great, everything else––from the red tentacles of the blooming cottonwoods to the winding tendrils of the willows–– joined in, the voice of their tenacious color rising up in an unruly chorus. Too often these last few years a spring snow with Autumn-like winds have killed the blossoms and swept their petals away before they could even open and perfume the world. This year, though, despite last week's brief snow, color and its sweet bouquet seemed to rise up in rebellion against the cold, stood its ground and held fast, refused to be stifled and has bathed us in the lilac, gardenia magic of its fragrance daily since.

Under a sky where a single enormous, white whale of a cloud swam, its head bowed and pointed into the lowering sun, its tail lost, miles back, amid the bubbling blue of the indigo east, Duncan and I walked through an ocean of color that splashed over us, waves of it dappling our faces and drifting on a cool breeze that stroked the points of the ripening, greened grass, sifting through them, its delicate caress rousing them to dance and bend in bold celebration of their newfound height. Everything seems to turn its face upward, toward the sky, where whales glide effortlessly and serenely past.

And Duncan, the darling of all seasons, has been there with me, a prince among the petals, my loyal companion and witness to all the glory this Spring has to offer.

Gratified Dogs

After nearly a week of being sick, staring up at the ceiling from my spot on the couch, wrapped in blankets, hardly able to speak or breath, Duncan finally coaxed me outside for an early afternoon stroll in the park. It was a magnificent day, sunny and bright and as fragrant as any Spring I can remember, and Dunc was content to walk slowly by my side, leading me from one brilliant blossoming tree to the next, and then finally, when I was winded and needed to sit in the shade, he hunkered down beside me, the baseball we'd found locked securely between his paws where he could find it and gnaw on it as it seemed to want him to do. He rested his weight against me and watched me carefully. And when I laid down beside him and smiled and thanked him for pulling me across the street to a place where the grass and sunshine and a cool breeze were waiting for us, he flipped onto his back, smiled a goofy smile and rolled until I joined him, rolling and huffing and wrapping the grass around us, unconcerned with the way it caught and stuck to us, happy, instead, to be together, to spin like gratified dogs under the clear April sky.

Green and White

A lot can happen in twenty-four hours.

It's a cliche, I know, but welcome to springtime in the Rockies.

Fire on the Mountain

I could see and smell the smoke at work, a seventeen mile drive from where I live. There was a subtle haze on the horizon that smelled like the campfires I remember from my youth but I didn't give it much thought until I drove home and saw the tall billows rising up quite near where I live. The entire mountainside was shrouded in heavy smoke, gray and foul as it gusted eastward, but thick and white and red near the ground. The closer I drove the bigger it got until it took up my entire view, blocking out the sky and the mountains.

Duncan and I headed straight to the park and climbed Rebel Hill behind Columbine High School, a vantage that allows us to see all the Christmas lights in December and all the colors of the sunset over Johnson Reservoir on summer nights. Tonight, though, the view was remarkably different and terrifying. While the fire poses no threat to us there are homes in that area that have been evacuated and the smoke, billowing eastward on frighteningly strong winds, has filled my apartment and tainted everything I breath. From our vantage we watched it rise up and curl outward, fanning out over Littleton and Highlands Ranch, and when the wind turned in our direction I watched it sweep away my view of the grocery store where I shop not a mile away. It was when Duncan began to sneeze and duck his head low to the ground that we turned back home. There was no leisure to our walk as we hurried back across the fields and up the stairs to our sanctuary. And now, an hour later, sitting on my patio I have a clear view of the burn, the tallest plumes catching the last of the sun's rays while the base glows gold and red.

So I will close the windows and watch the night southwest of us burn and hope for the safety of others.

Couch Clemency

The morning the new furniture arrived was pandemonium. Ken and I got up early to pull the couch out and ready it for delivery to Good Will. Pip, who spends much of his day buddying up to the rough bunch of dust bunnies which congregate in the darkness beneath the couch, was quite frantic and didn't know what to make of the situation. He scampered, low and flat to the ground, around the periphery of the apartment, taking refuge where he could find it: with his hind end sticking out of the litter box or with his face stuffed into one of my slippers while the rest of him pushed and struggled to force itself the rest of the way. Winnie and Olive simply retreated to friendly patches of sunshine in the sills and watched with bemused grins as Pip made a fool of himself.

Duncan, though, was not happy with the decision at all. The couch has been his preferred spot for quite some time now. After we pulled it out and removed the wires and cable which ran beneath it he climbed right up onto his favorite spot, hunkered down, refused to move and gave us the saddest, most forlorn face he could muster. Even when I turned the vacuum on and began taking care of Pip's bunny gang Roo didn't move. He only watched, his paws hooked tightly into the cushion, his eyes focused entirely on Ken, pleading silently for couch clemency.

Being all too easily swayed by the appearance of pumpkin treat and a belly scritch his tactics did not work. Once he was down we worked quickly to take the couch downstairs and load it into the truck. And as we drove off I couldn't help but glance up at the bedroom window where he'd relocated to watch us take away his favorite thing in all the world.

The new furniture arrived later in the afternoon and almost immediately he attempted to climb up and test it out. Unfortunately, that's not in the cards and he was redirected to the comfort of the floor. The cats, even Pip, eventually came out to inspect it. And although I don't want them up there either, I'm not quite sure how to keep them away. Last night when I came back from checking the mail I discovered all three in places they shouldn't be, as though they'd waited for the door to close behind me and my steps to retreat down the stairs. Even Olive, who rarely comes out of the bedroom except to eat, had claimed her spot on the new recliner. Duncan met me at the door and led me right into the living room where I could see for myself how the cats were in flagrant violation of the new rules. I attempted to scatter them but after a few moments of humoring me all three returned to their favorite spots while Duncan sighed loudly into his paws from his new spot under the coffee table.

 

Sometimes life just isn't fair, but I have faith that with a few treats and lots of love everything will right itself once again.

The Teachings of Spring

No one taught the sun to rise as bright and clear as it did this morning, in a sky not quite sweet-smelling, but rich and deep, as though the earth had been tilled and made ready for hands to be thrust deeply into it. No one taught the last patch of snow to hold on as long as it has, receding bit by bit each afternoon, the ice revealing the pebbles and once-leaves and children's toys like secrets it has clutched tightly since November when the snow decided to stay. Under today's warm, cloudless sky, it finally relented and retreated, the remaining bits, clutching the grass like discarded chunks of paper, finally seeping into the earth as silently and gracefully as last night's shadows.

No one taught the nimble ends of the branches to redden and swell and then burst suddenly but quietly into tufts of delicious, vibrant green, the likes of which only appear in the newness of the season, soft and moist and curled up on themselves like the silky wings of newly-hatched butterflies. Theirs is the color of winter dreams, forgotten but hoped for more than remembered, like a word sticking unspoken and stubborn to the end of your tongue, refusing to be uttered.

No one taught the reedy willows to puff and pop open and dazzle the world with the sparkle of their long winter slumber. They are delicate and tiny, smaller than my smallest fingernail, but catch the sun like shattered glass and reflect it back, dazzling the little brown birds hoping along the fence line, dancing back and forth and waiting for them to enbiggen and weigh down the erupting tendrils swaying above the enlivening green of the new grass.

No one taught the myriad little birds their songs or the magnificent sound the make as they burst all at once from the cover of a low shrub after you pass, the churning of their wings rising up in sync, a staccato whir that fades as they fan out over and around the path.

No one taught me to turn my face into the sunshine on days like this, to close my eyes and savor the flavor of the morning, as unique and distinct as the prints on my fingers. And no one taught my dog to dance at the joy of uncovering a thick, perfectly-weighted stick, balancing it between his teeth as he prances, head high and proud at his discovery.

No needs teach these things. They are a given, just a few of the miracles of Spring which are waiting to astound if we only open our eyes and open ourselves to their discovery.

Night Song

Another day is done,
Say good-bye to the setting sun,
See what I found, turn back to the ground just like before

And hey hey hey, hey hey hey
Hey Beautiful Day (hey! hey!)
Hey Beautiful Day

When the night feels my song,
I'll be home, I'll be home.

(When the Night Feels My Song, Bedouin Soundclash)

Thank The Universe for the gift of this night, for the melting sherbet orange of the sun dripping down the sky above the black silhouette of the mountains, vibrant enough that Duncan could reach out his face and eyes and tongue and lap at it, pulling it down from the fingerprint smears of the dusk-born clouds above and into a warm patch he could roll in on the dusty grass-strewn ground at our feet. Thank The Universe for the miracle sound of a thrown ball striking a wooden bat and echoing out over the hills, riding the crest of cheers and shouts from the spectators gathered to celebrate the night with beer and friends and games, and the exhilaration of the mounting spring. Thank The Universe for the smell of burgers and steaks and chicken drifting on the warm breeze from their grills to the place where we walked, slowly and without destination, perfect and pointless. Thank The Universe for the fingernail-clipping crescent of the moon, tumbling through the vastness of the night below Venus and Jupiter, bright as dreams from their tremendous distances.

And thank you Duncan for guiding me out, leading me nowhere, so slowly we could watch our shadows fade and tuck themselves back into the earth, pull the slowly greening grass over themselves and wait for us to find them in the newness of the morning.

All for Our Hero

Duncan and I helped out our good friend Chelsea at Hero's Pets last month with an promotional spot produced by KUSA, the local NBC affiliate here in Denver. Here's the final product.

Enjoy! And if you're in the area or contact Hero's over the phone or via email please tell them Duncan and Curt sent you.

Perpetual Astonishment

Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment. (Ellis Peters)

Ever so slowly, nearly imperceptibly, Spring is finding its way into our corner of the world. It is premature to say, I know, especially since March and April are typically the snowiest months in Denver, but I have walked these fields and the darkened paths for so long that my eyes are hungry for change.

It was another lovely day with temperatures hovering around 70˚, a warm breeze sifting through the last of the once-leaves, chasing them across the parking lot and scattering them down the wide avenues. The finches were singing in the trees outside the patio where Jeffrey's once-feral cat hunts, and a few golfers appeared on the yellow greens of the golf course. The park was blessedly empty but full of life, with flocks of heavy, black crows croaking from the naked tree limbs while squirrels ran erratic circles around their trunks.

Dunc jogged far ahead, his nose pulling him from one boggy patch of earth to the next, his tail propelling him forward as he went. I found him sitting in the center of the walk at the edge of the baseball diamonds, his back to me, his face turned rapturously into the sun. He barely noticed my arrival and it wasn't until I stepped beside him and rested my hand on his narrow shoulder that he turned, his tongue hanging out, a grin spread wide across his face. We stood a long moment together, not moving, looking up into the blue, the warmth of the sun kissing our faces, blessing and encouraging us for these last few difficult weeks of winter.

He led me to the baseball fields, which have been been cleaned and painted and then back out onto the wide soccer fields, where the posts have already been erected and the grounds marked for the hoards which will no doubt arrive this weekend. He galloped and rolled in the dry grass, the barren trees and stark color a backdrop to his glorious red. It would have been easy to feel discouraged by the weight of these too-short days and the early nights still creeping upon us, to sigh discontentedly at the dry yellow, if Duncan hadn't searched out and found a small, hardly visible patch of greening grass to roll in.

The world is changing and we are eager to change with it. There is hope and light and green to be found under the vast expanse of blue.

With Eyes to the Skies

It was a lovely day, the loveliest in a long time, with bright clear skies, as blue as my dreams of June, with a breeze that, despite being a little strong, was warm and fresh. We walked the lake trail with Melissa and Kona, enjoyed the yellow of the grass and the dark of the mud, fragrant and heavy, stopped for ice cream and made promises to do it again soon.

But it was the night that was truly wonderful, nearly as warm as the day, with quiet, still air and a cloudless sky. We have been watching Jupiter hover over Venus, both of them impossibly bright despite their impossible distances. They rise in the west over the mountains just after the sun says his farewells, and stay just far enough away from Orion and his hounds so as to avoid suspicion. They are a welcome sight, warm and playful up there, a darling couple in the dark of March.

But Mars is where my passion has been as of late, as it moves into opposition, which is just a scientific way of saying that the earth has moved directly between it and the sun. It is small in the eastern sky, but you can't miss it. It is red––a deep red––as red as the eyes of the lion Leo, where it rises. It is a remarkable sight, that little cracked globe, and I could hardly tear my eyes away from it on our walk. Duncan does not know it, can't even conceive of it in the same way we do, but I wonder if he can sense its pull on me as he pulls on the leash that tethers us together.

Opposition. What a strange way to say that things are aligned. Duncan and I are aligned many times a day, pulling each other down the sidewalk, the gravity of our bond evident for all to see. Perhaps not as wondrous as the skies, but no less remarkable.

Mars, red and magnificent. As magnificent as my good, red dog. Only so much further away.

More than Dogs Slide

We awoke to a find dusting of snow a few days ago. We'd been warned it could be much greater and were relieved to discover the error, unlike a few weeks ago when we were told to expect flurries and got ten inches instead. Duncan seemed content both ways and frolicked as he always does, galloping down The Run, pouncing through the shrubs with the hope of scattering the little birds from the snow caves which have formed beneath them. He loves the gentle slope of The Run, which is on the north side of the complex and thus protected from the sun and melt and is still covered in a thick layer of packed snow and ice. He throws himself onto his side, attempts to push his face into the crust and then rolls and rolls until he's slid a good way down the hill to the edge of the fence that divides us from the golf course. Many a morning he's slid, oblivious, right under it only to come up on the other side, where he jerks up, startled by his accidental progress and the wild, tall brown reeds and brittle thistle bones jutting up around him. He knows he's not allowed back there, not even when a tantalizing, stray golf ball beckons, and is usually quick to return, his head high, tail wagging happily as though to remind me what a good boy he is for coming right back to me without being told.

After he'd stirred up the little birds and tended to the morning's sliding, he got down to business, turning his back to me and looking up at the trees while he squatted at the top of the hill. I respect the awkwardness of the moment and turn my attention to the squirrels chittering profanities at us from their perches in the elms above while I ready the doggie bag for clean-up and the treat he gets for a job well done. After a few moments I turned back to him and noticed he was staring down at the ground in front of him, right between his front paws. Plink, a little bit of business fell and then slid down the ice right between his legs and out of reach under the fence where it settled in the newly fallen powder. Duncan glanced up at me as though to ask, "Well, how do we handle that???" Then plink! plink! plink! three more pieces fell, tumbling and bouncing on the ice, sliding between his legs and under the fence. He watched them spin away and vanish in the fluff, his ears and curious eyebrows raised high. When he was done he spun around to see if anything remained, perhaps confused by the physics and gravity of the situation, then hurried back to me to see if he still got his treat, which he did. And I got to save a bag.

Metaphor

Miraculous things are happening and as I walk with Duncan in our slowly melting snowscape, I'm finally able to enjoy one of my favorite parts of winter, that time when the snow recedes and melts and the running water carves out shelves in the ice that has long been hidden beneath. For as long as I can remember I have taken immense delight on stepping on the little frozen lips just to feel and hear the crack of ice beneath my feet, the pressure and seeming firmness of it before it shatters and gives out beneath me. When I was a child, and just learning about the slow shaping of the continents, I imagined that ice as huge masses of frozen land that bent to my will and weight and was forever shaped by my passing. It was a game I looked forward to playing on my walks to and from school and part of that still lingers all these years later.

Miraculous things can happen when the ice breaks. And I get to share them with my good red dog at my side.

This Low Vantage

It has been a long time since we ventured to the park. The snow has been deep and heavy and I have been lazy and slow-moving. But the morning was bright and clear and quiet, as I prefer, and Duncan, standing at my feet in the kitchen, watching me prepare his breakfast of salmon and blueberries, pumpkin and carrots, gave me that look, one eyebrow raised with just a hint of a tail wag and a bum wiggle, seemed to be asking for a good game of fetch out on the wide, empty fields. So I donned my jacket and gloves and boots and took him across the street where we can run and throw our arms out wide and laugh without care.

The snow has compacted and hardened and is no longer deep and difficult to navigate. It is hard, with a nice solid crust, a fine dusting resting on top, and we barely made tracks as we traveled across it. Duncan danced at my side, occasionally throwing himself into it for a good roll that left him nearly as dry at the end as he'd been at the beginning. We threw the ball a good long while, back and forth across the covered soccer field, squinting and smiling into the sun, enjoying the cool on our faces and the slim, naked spot between the end of my gloves and the start of my sleeve. The snow was covered with goose tracks and when fetch grew boring and we just wanted to move and listen to the rhythmic crunch of the snow underfoot, we walked and walked, following the erratic paths of the birds who had come and then gone, leaving nothing behind––not even the green slime of their Tootsie Roll droppings––except a record of their soft weight imprinted on the snow.

Their paths are funny things to follow as they have no direction but a simple line forward, a strange twist here and there that sometimes doubles back on itself, and then another odd plod forward. With Duncan at my side I picked a trail and we set off after it, moving forward a long distance, sometimes meeting up with and dancing around the prints of other geese, then moving away on its own, off toward a big elm, perhaps to search for seeds abandoned by the squirrels or the crows or the thick, tight fists of early buds pulled free by the wind. It made a lazy arc around the fenced edge of the baseball diamond then came back out into the wide open space under the sky where it joined up briefly with another. They walked awhile together, side by side but not too close, and perhaps together they were able to look up and see the pink and gold smear of the sunrise, or perhaps the sunset, and enjoy it as surely geese must, being as acquainted with it as they are. Eventually they moved on, my goose off on its own, the other, the stranger, back toward the large matted spot where the rest of the flock had gathered, their feet softening the snow while the warmth of their bodies melted it, exposing the yellow and brown tangled mash of frozen grass beneath.

In a wide clearing, free of tracks, the tracks became deeper and further apart and then stopped entirely. Except for a few scattered clumps of snow a few feet beyond, it ceased to exist and all I could do was turn my face up into the morning blue and wonder which direction it had gone. Was it now in the golf course across the street behind my apartment, or had it circled around and headed toward the lake to join up with the hundreds of others who gather there, mingling among the reeds with the ducks and the occasional pelican?

But it did not matter. Destination rarely does, really. Flight was what mattered and soon I was envisioning myself in its place, tethered to the ground by the weight of my body and the spinning of the earth beneath my booted feet and then suddenly not. With a scoff at gravity I leapt into the air, felt the rush of it against my face, the sucking rise of my belly, the warm pull of the sun and the freedom to spread myself out and go any direction I chose. Freedom like I have not experienced in a very long time.

There are many paths in this world. It's important for me to remember that not all of them are defined by dirt and grass and flowers blooming in the trees along the shore of the lakes. Some paths are carved among the clouds. Some paths follow the wind. Some cut high across the plains, so high they cast no shadows. Some are not as treacherous as they seem from this low vantage.

There is joy to be had among the clouds, where there is a whole new way of dancing to be rediscovered.

King of the Mountain

It has been two weeks since our last major snowfall––the one that dumped over twenty-four inches onto our small corner of the world––and although the grounds are now walkable, and the trail Duncan and I have carved out isn't quite as treacherous, there are areas of the surrounding parking lot that are still quite challenging. The management of our apartment complex recently contracted with a new snow removal company, but they haven't proven as proficient as the previous removers. And so mountains of snow have been erected all over the place, which can make driving through it a problem. Some of these snow piles stretch far out into our parking spaces and rise six to eight feet above us. Trees have been practically buried up to their lowest boughs and the shrubs and low bushes where the small birds roost have all but vanished. Duncan, lover of all things snowy and wet, doesn't mind so much, and prefers to climb the highest of peaks, which can make walking him, especially at night, a bit awkward. I can't tell you the number of times I've dropped his leash and watched him scurry to the top only to slide on his back down the other side, a grin spread wide across his face, unmindful and uncaring of the ice that clings to his ears and back. His new preference is to get as high as he can and leave his mark, a frozen yellow flag that none of the other dogs can reach. Sometimes, though, he'll struggle up the crusted, pebbled side just to sit and gaze out over his kingdom, looking into the sun, watching the hawks circle overhead and the clouds moving across the cold, blue sky.

Sometimes I watch him, looking out and cocking his head this way and that, and wish he had command of words and could put his thoughts to paper. He studies this world, its moving and especially its stillness, like a poet and his thoughts must surely be profound.

His awe at the marvel of life is one of the blessings of mine.

Plodding Through

Although the weather has been much nicer the past few days, much of the snow we got last week is still here and still deep especially on the northward side of things. Duncan doesn't walk through it so much as swim in high, arching undulations that leave him exhausted. I tromp slowly behind, my boots heavy and awkward, trying to follow him as fast as I can. Sometimes all I can see of him over the drifts is the red flapping flag of his tail. So I whistle until a nose appears and settles in one place until I catch up.

It is all I can do to keep up though, and despite his love of it, and my love of his love of it, we tire quickly and return home, me for a nice warm cup of tea and Dunc to curl up on the couch and cuddle with his pillows.

Winter ain't easy, but the downtime is quite nice.

"More?"

There are no finer words than "Snow Day" and this holds especially true for Duncan, who loves the stuff as much as I love just about everything else. It started last night and has been coming down in thick, heavy tufts ever since. Duncan was awake before anyone else––even fat Olive, who starts demanding breakfast early––poking his head through the blinds to peek out the window then stepping around the side of the bed to touch his nose to mine in an effort to wake me up. And when that didn't work he was back at the blinds, his head disrupting them like a soft clamor of bells. Finally he succeeded to rouse me and we were off.

It's slow going when the snow reaches over your boots and past your dog's shoulders, but he is tireless and stops often to urge me on, barking softly while his tail swats angel wing imprints behind him. And then as soon as I've caught up he's off again, forcing me to follow his erratic trail, around trees, through shrubs, then down into deep drifts. But this is what he loves and because I love him more I follow, a smile on my face as I go.

When we're inside, after a nice foot-rinse in the tub, he stands on the patio, his head hanging between the bars, and looks down on the world, filling and rising up below us, the ground seeming closer and closer each hour. And he watches me, turning his head over his shoulder every now and then as though to ask, "More?"

More? I wonder. I appreciate not going in to the office today but do we really need more?

Frenzy

What the heck??? It's my birthday. I should be the one waiting for someone to serve me dinner!

 

(Honestly, though, it was a little creepy to turn around and discover four sets of eyes focused on me. I was almost afraid to move for fear of inciting a feeding frenzy!)