Independence

Sometimes while walking Duncan I get the feeling I'm playing the role of the parent to the embarrassed and annoyed child. I'll be enjoying a perfectly lovely walk, whistling as I go, looking at the trees and the new buds which are swelling up nicely, watching the progress of all the flowers whose names I haven't learned or can't remember and talking with him as I occasionally do––asking little questions like, "Ooo! There's a stick! Is that a good stick?" or "Wanna go chase a squirrel?" or "This looks like a good spot. Do you need to pee?" those kind of things) and I notice he starts pulling further and further away from me––three feet, four feet––until eventually we're walking almost directly across from one another, the leash stretched as far as it can reach. Sometimes he won't acknowledge I'm even there. When I reach down and scritch behind his ears or pat him affectionately on the rump he'll actually skip right past me, practically ducking under and away from my hand. I smile and think of those days back in junior high when I was young and thought I'd figured it all out even though my mother still drove me to school each morning. She'd pull right up in front of the building and I'd give her a quick peck before I got out of the car. Although I never actually recoiled I was very aware of all the eyes potentially watching and as I climbed those long steps in front of Franklin Junior High I waited for someone, one of the older, cooler kids perhaps, to say something, make some comment, fearful that if they did that would be the end of it, that I'd have to shun my own mother to save my reputation.

I don't mind Duncan's occasional independent streaks. They make me smile and I simply drop the leash and watch as he fumbles about for a bit trying to get his bearing without the familiar pressure of my grip to hold him steady or to pull away from. He may think he's tough on his own, but I know better. Just this morning as I went outside to start my car and wipe away the snow which fell while we slept, I took him out with me. I left him in the front yard to sniff out a good potty spot and pulled the car up close to the building. Duncan was sitting nervously by the breezeway, a look on his face like a child frightened of being left alone. When I climbed out of the car and walked with him back to our door, he jumped all over me, whined and clutched my wrist between his teeth as if to say, "Don't ever do that again! You scared me to death."

I could no more leave him than I could my arm. In fact the arm would probably be easier.

Sunshine Day

I have hated Sundays most of my life. It's never been a day of rest but the day I spend fretting about chores, grocery shopping, laundry, house cleaning, the impending arrival of Monday and the week that looms ahead.

Duncan, however, sees Sunday as the day we get up early and go to the park to throw the ball and chase the little birds that dart through the low bushes. Sunday is the day he's ready to go from the moment he senses a change in my breathing and my eyes creak open. And because I'm a good papa, I don't even turn the tea kettle on before I throw on some jeans and a hoodie and head out the door with him. Sunday is the day when I know Duncan would whistle if he could, a happy tune, like "Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah", or perhaps, "Sunshine Day" by The Brady Bunch. He'd drag me down the sidewalk and across the street, his head up, cheeks full of air and his lips pursed together. Sunday is the finest day of the week to be a Duncan and for awhile, before the list of things to be done starts to accumulate in my head, I get to share in it.

And even if he can't whistle I'm good enough at it for the both of us, and besides, there's always a ball to chase and grass and sunshine to roll in. And quite often, like this morning I throw myself down right next to him and enjoy the morning as every morning should be enjoyed.

Ghost Games

Some days are too good to end, the air too warm, bleeding into the night. We walked this morning, we walked this afternoon, and after a long play with Khan down at The Glen, we ventured to the park and back. But even being home and tired isn't enough so we've found ourselves sitting on the patio, sipping Chamomile tea and breathing in the April air.

Warm weather brings phantoms. From my patio I can hear them playing in the park––echoes of laughter from the darkness––and if I squint I can even see them, thin shadows running back and forth across the fields. Bowles is mostly deserted this time of night with only a few cars crossing every couple of minutes but the voices are continuous, heedless of the hour. Duncan leans through the patio into the sound, his ears rising as the night catches and plays phantom calls. He cocks his head when he sees them, stick shapes chasing back and forth between the trees on the wide expanse of grass we walk every day. We listen and watch, and sometimes we can see a flash of green––although sometimes it is red, dull and not very bright, little more than a dim slice of movement––or even bright yellow. The voices rise up and the shadows run again, the sound of their quick steps an imagined stampede we almost think we can feel trembling the earth at our feet. They always make me smile and I wonder, if I came from another time, what would I think of the glow-in-the-dark Ultimate Frisbee game that has taken over the park, the nearly formless shapes of the players, ghosts under the orange street lamps, crossing back and forth calling out to one another, laughing as they move? I remember days that don't seem all that long ago when late still seemed early, when my night started as the nights of most people wound down. Duncan watches the glowing disc and wants to chase it, grip it in his jaws and carry it away, his head and tail high. I merely want to remember what it was like to run and play without thought.

Spring is the time when the world––our half of it, at least––comes back to life. But every Spring I find myself remembering Springs of old when I didn't feel quite so tired or my obligations seemed nearly as heavy. It would be nice to forget tomorrow and run across the street and join those shadows in play, if only to remind myself that I am not a shadow but still very much muscle and bone and breath.
April is a good time to play. I think we'll do that tomorrow.

Walk with Everything

It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
(Henry David Thoreau)

I let Duncan lead the way again today––this glorious, bright and beautiful April day––and he walked me down Pierce, past Columbine to Polk, where we've walked before, but not since the heat of Summer had just passed and Autumn was on its way. We'd bypassed the trail there and walked through the neighborhood instead, where we could smell grilling burgers and hear the sounds of families sitting down to dinner or TV, or both, and came out just south of Clement Park, near the lake and the hillside prairie dog town. Today, however, Duncan pulled me up the trail through the Lilley Gulch greenbelt, which follows the path of a narrow creek, not full but babbling and trickling over rocks, wending its way through tall yellow and red reeds, under small bridges, and between grand willow trees, their long vines hanging low, swaying softly and just beginning to bud. The sun was in my face and my sunglasses kept slipping down my nose so I closed my eyes and did that thing I sometimes do when I pretend I'm blind just to see how well Duncan will guide me.

Our discovery of the park had seemed rich enough but blind it was like the whole world opened before me. The sun was still bright and warm on my face and even with my eyes closed I could "see" a yellow glow before me. The calls of the birds magnified, as did their rustling in the tall grass along the creek, their hops and skips along the wet rocks and downed branches lining its shallow bank. I wish I knew birds better so I could share, give them their proper names so that even in print their voices could be heard. There were flitting, nervous little kilddeer, though, and sparrows, robins, doves, poetic and cautious, woodpeckers drumming the trunks of trees. There were so many birds, so many sounds that the symphony of them brought a smile to my face, something that could not be contained and burst from me as a sudden and surprising laugh that seemed unnatural for a moment and heard by anyone else would've labeled me as crazy, but even it was beautiful and harmonized almost perfectly with the chorus around me. The creek didn't mind, nor did the birds, and the squirrel, who lounging on a low branch in a tree, draped and lazy, unmoving, only yawned and continued his meditation. It was joy, simple and fine, sudden and perfect.

I was recently asked how I'm able to take something as mundane as walking a dog and turn it into adventure and discovery, even on those walks when nothing happens. "It must be your words," I was told. "You're a story-teller; it's something you've learned to do." The secret is not the story or the language, the secret is nothing. Nothing is what I strive for, the whole point of the walk. Being empty means you can only be filled. It's the something that leads you astray, that distracts and bends your spirit away from the poetry of exploration and discovery. Walk with nothing and you walk with everything.

That is the wisdom of dogs. That is why they are our best friends. They have many lessons to teach and we have much to learn.

The Day's Gold

It was a gray day, gray and cloud-heavy, cold and wet. A September day, only it's April and that means that the grass is slowly turning green and the days are growing longer. It means that the trees are beginning to bud and very soon my view of the mountains will be obscured behind all the leaves in Clement.

It was cold until just before sunset when suddenly the clouds pulled back from the west and sped away east, trapping the sun between their dissipating bodies and the mountains, creating my favorite kind of light, an intense focused gold that outlines the trees, their branches and boughs, the grass just beginning to stand up and the droplets of water that had collected on the surface of each blade. Walking in light like that is one of my favorite things, especially with Duncan, who basks in his pleasure like no creature I know. It did not matter what the day had been only what it had become, what it was at that moment. While I watched him he sat down on the sidewalk and turned his head into the sun. There was no hurry to get across the street and into the park. He was content where he was and his love of the light and warmth took precedence over the rest of it. So we sat, side by side, my arm over his shoulder, squinting into the last of the day's blue and all of the day's gold.

God, he is beautiful. Inside and out.

Grief in the Warming of the Year

A goose was hit by a car in front of the building today at work. They are slow creatures, and as stubborn as crabgrass. They go where they want and move at their own pace, which isn't always a terrible thing (unless, of course, it pits you against the wheels of a car and its impatient driver). Geese, like most things, require a special understanding. They adhere to a time schedule that is far greater and vastly different from our own. A honking horn, a green light, a break in the traffic mean nothing to them. Right now what matters most to a goose is finding a mate––which they hold on to for life––and settling down in a nice quiet, protected spot to tend to their eggs (which is an entirely human thing to do). I have watched them gather in the fields surrounding our building, have seen them conversing and huddling together, picking out the perfect partner and breaking off into tight little pairs. They move away from the flock and find a place to call their own, all but hanging do-not-disturb signs from their necks.

It is not hard to miss a goose (although quite often extraordinarily difficult to dodge the treats they leave behind, smeared across the sidewalk or embedded in the grass). They naturally avoid us and will only hiss and pose and posture when they fear for the safety of a nest or a mate. There is no reason a car could not navigate around an earthbound goose.

It's been on my mind a great deal today. Animal Control was called to tend to the injured creature, whose wing had been crushed so badly they fear it will not survive. As they took it away its mate marched back and forth across the sidewalk, squawking anxiously as a crowd, no doubt, gathered to witness the event.

After playing with Kona and Melissa at The Glen this evening Duncan and I walked across the street and down to the lake where the ducks and geese are pairing off in the reeds while the gulls set up house in the lamp boxes above. I watched them, the geese I have so reviled all winter, and I saw them as delicate and vulnerable, as things that seek each other out and tend to one another, who dote and primp and preen and look after. They are at their best when they are coupled up, amazing to the eyes and this Spring heart of mine. I don't know if animals love in the same sense that humans do (I'm sure science would insist they do not) but it was hard not to believe they could love. And why not? They don't mate for life just because they find a nice piece of tail and decide to stick with it. These creatures care for one another; you can see it when you watch them, really watch them. And while Duncan sat next to me I thought of that goose out in front of the building this afternoon, the one I passed as I left the parking lot. It was alone, still pacing, still calling after its missing mate. Its tiny head swiveled back and forth on that long stalk of a neck and its black ball bearing eyes were wide. It was searching for the mate it lost today, the mate it will most likely never see again. No one will come calling to offer condolences or offer an explanation, tell it that its union has been severed and that it must now spend this season, this warming, greening, life-erupting season solo.

How lucky we are to have loved ones in our lives, be they dogs or cats, partners, friends we don't see nearly as often as we'd like. Every moment we share with another, no matter how brief, is a gift from the universe and should be treasured as precious and fleeting, unique and immaculate.

Better

This morning was not our typical morning. Duncan had crawled under the bed last night, rather than claim our part of it for himself as he usually does, but when I awoke this morning, Ken had been pushed almost completely off, his poor legs draped over the side, and Duncan was asleep between the two of us. I got up and took my shower, and usually, by the time I've dressed and started my breakfast, Duncan ambles down the hall for his morning walk. He didn't do that and when I went to investigate he was standing in the hall, his head hanging as low as his leg was lifted high, a single, very powerful arch of urine burning the wall and the carpet. I raised my voice and when he didn't respond I grabbed a towel and tossed it under him. I couldn't very well get mad since this is not typical behavior and he's been sick, so I led him outside where we walked aimlessly for nearly twenty minutes without finding a spot to tend to the rest of his business, which is also unusual.

I came home from work in the early afternoon to check on him––one of the few benefits of my miserable job being that I work only seven minutes away from home––and although he was in greater spirits and a bit more animated he still had not had a good squat. We cuddled for a bit on the bed where he keeps guard all day, watching the cars come and go in the parking lot from the big window and I went back to work.

The dog I came home to after work, however, was completely different. He ran down the hall toward me, his head high, his tail wagging and we wrestled on the floor with typical abandon. He was anxious to get out for a walk so I leashed him and headed down Bowles toward the library. It was a cold, silver day, miserable and windy with just a bite of snow in the air. Funny how only three weeks ago the high 40's seemed like Nirvana but now it's painful and just plain ridiculous. The gulls had returned to the lake and all the light boxes atop the lamp posts were full of happy, barking couples, their white heads and yellow beaks peeking down at us. We cut through the park behind the library and skirted the edge of the lake where the ducks had paired up in the reeds along the shore. The colorful mallards, with their heads more purple than green, stood watch over their females, who were low to the ground, probably resting on their clutch of eggs. In a few weeks, just as the trees are budding up nicely and the grass has greened all the way up, the shores will be teeming with fuzzy, awkward ducklings following after their parents and careening off of each other like bumper cars.

Up around the bend in the trail, not far from Hopps Bar and Grill we spotted the first of three rabbits, all of whom seemed quite startled to see Duncan. Word must've spread like wildfire that he was incapacitated for each seemed surprised, then kind of casual about his presence, as though thinking it was safe to play cool since he obviously wouldn't be chasing them, but then quickly startled when they discovered he was fully functionable.

We made our way down to Hero's where Chelsea, who'd heard Duncan was miserable with the Jonah Blues, was quite startled to discover a very exuberant and perky-eared dog. It earned him a treat, a scratch behind the ears and a long walk back home where we rolled in the grass and, as sad as it sounds, I was finally rewarded with that nice, healthy squat I'd been waiting for all day. Is it is the little things that matter, after all.

Duncan is fine. Thanks for the good thoughts.

Rest for The Roo

I've cuddled next to Dunc on the couch and he seems to be in good spirits. He ate most of his dinner, drank some water and even had one heck of a pee an hour ago. Winnie and Pip have stayed close as well, and he's carried his Bah-Bah with him where ever he goes. I'm sure he'll spread out long and wide on my half of the bed tonight, which seems to be the secret to dog happiness and health. We'll keep you posted.

For the Boy

I may feel better, and even Jonah has managed to hold down his food, but Duncan has been bitten by the bug. I came home to find him under the bed rather than dancing and chirping at the door, his usual routine. His refusal to come out was alarming, even with the promise of treats and a walk. At first I thought he was feeling guilty, perhaps there'd been an accident, but after inspecting the apartment and finding nothing I crawled halfway under the bed, held his paw and talked to him, coaxing him out slowly and gently. He wanted the walk but would not look at anything but me the entire time we were at the park. He pooped twice, the first was nice and solid and quite typical, but the second was not so lucky so we returned home where I gave him some rice and plain Yo-Curt, my homemade yogurt. He ate most of it and even drank some water but he's spent most of the night curled up in a very quiet ball at my feet. Right now he's under the desk, a place he knows he's not allowed, but I've let him stay because it's obvious he feels so bad. He looks a bit wilted, like a wet dog without the wet. I can't help but feel anxious about it because the last time I saw him this way was during The Great Yarn Crisis of 2006.

The rest of my night will be spent with him, cuddling and holding his paw. Think good, get-well thoughts for him, the same you all sent to me during last week's blahs. Duncan was there for me and now I'm going to be there for him.

The Ponds: A Community Saves the Day

It was a great day to be a Duncan, or at the least a Duncan who lives with me. Not only did the patient pup get a nice long walk in the park, complete with ball throwing and squirrel chasing, but we ventured down the street to a brand new dog park on the corner of Bowles and Platte Canyon. Melissa had mentioned it last week, and I'd even suggested it to some new neighbors who were looking for some place wide and open to take their Boxer, Khan (not sure of the spelling, although I like to imagine they were thinking of the Star Trek character, although they may be too young). This afternoon Duncan and I leashed up and, because it was chilly and windy even though the morning's snow had melted off, drove down the street in search of the grand and glorious park known as Wynetka Ponds.

We found it easily enough and bumped into a woman whose Golden, Raleigh, we'd met a few months back on a cold December morning in the park. I mentioned that this was our first trip to The Ponds and she explained that the vast hillside with its rolling brook and occasional copse of elms and pines had been slated for condominium development. I sighed remembering the northern Chicago suburbs where Ken and I had lived before coming to Denver. Much of the farm country there had been transformed into housing developments in the three short years I lived in Round Lake Beach and I've heard from others since that what little remained has also been swallowed up. The woman went on to explain that she lived in the development across the street and the entire community was up in arms over the impending arrival of the condos so they raised the funds, bought the land and sold it to the City of Littleton on the condition that it be turned into a park and that a sizable chunk of it be dog friendly.

It was an amazing thing for a group of people to do, especially in this day and age (there, I've become my grandfather! I actually used the phrase, "In this day and age!") when people will do almost anything to get ahead. It was a community in action and I know that every time I'm at that park I will silently thank them and hope the universe looks after them for the kindness and generosity.

Duncan was quite a hit at The Ponds, where six little Toto dogs nipped and chased after him while their owners (such an ugly word for a dog companion. Someone PLEASE help me find a better term! Post your suggestions as comments!), two little girls, ran with him, grabbed his head and hugged him, threw the ball for him and wouldn't give him a moment's rest. He wouldn't listen to a word they said, not coming, not dropping, not shaking or giving them five, but bless them for loving him so much and trying so hard. He smiled and played, galloped and cavorted, and I loved every minute of watching him. After a week of not getting it his way, it was wonderful to see him in action again.

And when it was done, after he'd been served his dinner and the sun began its descent in the western sky, I took him across the street to the park where we tossed the ball and rolled on the grass, just the two of us. He smiled and danced for me and once again, as every day, reminded me how lucky I am he is in my life.

Just Because

Last night was the first night I returned to bed since getting sick. It seems the nice thing to do, sleeping on the couch to avoid giving this nasty stomach bug to Ken. Duncan, who follows me everywhere, was quite happy to move back to our familiar haunts. The couch isn't nearly big enough to spread out on, especially not with Winnie and Pip curled up around me. As I was climbing into bed, he jumped up and plopped right down, taking up as much room as possible (nearly my entire half of the bed!). It wasn't nearly as comfortable as I'd hoped, but I got to wake up to a face this looked a lot like this one (only with blankets and bedding all around it instead of carpet). How could I be angry? And later today he'll be rewarded with our first long walk since last week.

Reed

This morning, from my spot on the couch, where I've holed up for the past several days, I had a very vivid dream about walking Duncan down Reed, the street my grandparents lived on in Idaho Falls until I was 15 years old. I think it was still some time in the 70's because the people who lived across the street when I was very young were there with their yellow Volkswagen Beetle. And the house next door was occupied both by the obnoxious neighbors with their hundreds of filthy children my grandmother constantly warned us about, and Alice, the kindly woman who replaced them. The big shrubs in front still reached up to the windows, a perfect hiding spot for grandchildren who spent much of their time pretending to be Steve Austin, The Bionic Man (that was me!) and Jamie Sommers, The Bionic Woman (my cousin Sheryl). The wretched Godfrey's were next door in the blond brick house on the corner, and from their garage issued a cacophony of saws and engines and all manner of noise-makers. Grandma was often so frustrated by them that she joked about taking her violin out at five in the morning and playing it under their window just to give them a taste of their own medicine. Grandpa's old turquoise truck was parked out front, as was the dark orange truck he drove to work at Bingham Mechanical. I didn't see Grandma's red Pontiac because it was always parked in the garage. The tree in front was standing at the corner of the front porch, the arc of one of its boughs worn smooth from all the grandchildren sitting in it like we were riding a pony. The short fence, red and peeling, still stood on the side of the house but I couldn't quite see the backyard. I don't know if the apricot tree was in the northwest corner or if it had been taken down. I was very excited to be there with Duncan, happy to finally show him the place where I had spent so much of my childhood, made so many of my happiest memories, from Christmas mornings to Summer afternoon taffy-pulls with Casey and the cousins. I can't think of a more perfect place in all my memories than that street and it seemed right that Duncan should be there with me. There was no feeling of loss or nostalgia, as there was at Christmas when my family drove slowly by to see what had become of the old place (the shrubs in front were cut down to nothing and the tree, the first tree I climbed, was gone) but only a sense of homecoming, timelessness and belonging. And when I awoke, the scene still strong in my head, I did not feel sadness or grief at having passed out of the dream but rather as though I'd been blessed to have been taken there at all, even if only in a dream, with my best friend at my side.

Getting There

Somehow or another the fever finally broke and tonight I'm starting to feel a bit like my old self again. Still afraid to eat and only sipping at ginger ale and bubble water, but my stomach seems to have calmed and my aches and pains are abating.

Staying home is not fun. At least not when you're really sick. Daytime TV is miserable and my head ached just enough that reading was out of the question. I watched a little "Price is Right," which I used to watch with Grandma when I was young, but Drew Carey is no Bob Barker and I had to turn the channel. Next came "VH-1 Behind the Music" and even some "Myth Busters" but it took Waterworld with Kevin Costner before I realized how truly low I had sunk and finally switched to DVDs.

Duncan has been miserable. He was relieved to have the apartment back after Kevi and Company left on Wednesday, and fully expected to return to long leisurely walks in the afternoons and evenings, but this flu sidelined his hopes. He's been pretty much grounded since Wednesday night, only going out when Ken can take him on walks or the two times I felt safe on my feet today.

The cats, however, have been living it up, if you can call hunkering down on their papa living it up. From the moment I relocated to the couch Thursday morning I have had Pip rolled up in a ball against my chest and Winnie on my hip. Duncan has alternated between plopping down on my legs or retreating completely to the bedroom where he hides under the bed. Olive, being a fat, little thing, hasn't moved from Ken's pillow. She's a daddy's girl anyway so I don't mind. Besides, she probably hasn't noticed at all.

Hopefully I'll be able to get out tomorrow and take Dunc for a walk. It might not be a long one, but at this point anything will be better than nothing.

Earth Hour

I'm not sure if you've heard of it or not, but I thought it was worth posting here. Earth Hour hits in exactly 24 hours. Please join the movement. And if you've come to this blog after the fact, you can still participate.



Hopefully I will be well enough to take Duncan on a nice long walk in the dark. If not we'll light a candle and cuddle on the couch.

Closed for Business

Jonah managed to leave just a bit of himself behind; the stomach virus he nursed all weekend decided to set up residence with me. It's been a tough day trying to keep anything down and even harder watching Duncan cuddle with me on the couch wondering why we haven't gone for a walk. Today was terrible and gray and we didn't miss anything, but it's hard on him if he doesn't get out.

Check back tomorrow. Hopefully I'll feel better. In the mean time, go read old posts and make new comments on them. It's been an awfully comment-free couple of weeks around here.

Too Much Room

I came home tonight very aware that Kevi, Mike, Elijah and Jonah have left Denver and returned to Pocatello. We had a wonderful weekend, from seeing the zoo to grilling burgers, playing at the park to sprawling on the couches making each other laugh. It felt good to have these people in my home, these friends who have become family to us. But it also felt good to know my space was my own again. After spending time with Melissa and Kona at The Glen I was almost giddy knowing that if I wanted to talk to myself I could, if I wanted to lay on the floor and pet Olive I wouldn't be pounced on by a four-year old. Duncan, who loves children, started looking a bit wilted this morning and I knew he was looking forward to reclaiming his home as much as I was, but after coming home and throwing ourselves onto the floor in the office to roll around and relax, I think we both realized how empty the place seemed, and not quite as solid. Kind of tinny and echoey. And Dunc, who spent the past three days trying to lay low, seemed kind of lost, too.The apartment seemed awfully big and empty without the sound of Elijah or the voices of my friends. And as happy as we were to have our place back, we can't help but feel a bit lonely.

The Wisdom of Children

This afternoon Mike and I took Elijah to the park for some much needed play. Duncan came along with us and while Elijah climbed the jungle gym and slid the slides under a warm, blue sky, Duncan and I strolled down to the lake to enjoy the sun bouncing off its smooth surface from a hundred different angles. The ducks and a few straggling geese swam lazily just off the bank and a hundred joggers, speed-walkers and roller-bladers darted past us. Mike and Elijah joined us and together we decided to visit the memorial and climb Rebel Hill. While Mike looked over the plaques and strolled the smooth brick courtyard, Elijah, Duncan and I followed the path to the top of the hill to overlook the lake, most of Littleton and Denver off in the distance. I took a seat on brick bench and Elijah leaned against the short wall opposite me. He was smiling and happy, but he watched me in that way he has, as if he's reading me and nothing is secret. This is a child I have a connection with like no other. I was present at his birth and was the first person to see him just before he entered the world. He single-handedly saved me at my grandmother's funeral and has touched and changed me in ways I never expected. I am as close to him as I am any of my friends, his mother and father included.

"This is one of my favorite places," I told him.

He looked around, about as amused as a four year old can be by a view of the mountains and the city.

"Sometimes when I'm very lonely and missing my friends and family Duncan and I come up here and we sit and look out on all the people passing below and it makes me happy," I explained.

He thought for a moment, the mountains and setting sun behind him, his head aglow with the last strong light of the day.

"Well now when you come up here you can remember me sitting here with you and Duncan and never feel lonely again."

I think it would be impossible to think of anything else.

I will miss him terribly when they leave tomorrow. He is my angel and one of the best gifts the universe has ever given me.

Cloud

"How sweet to be a Cloud
Floating in the Blue!
It makes him very proud
To be a little cloud."
(A.A. Milne)

It was a nearly perfect day, spent mostly away from home with very good friends. The sky was high and bright blue, mostly cloudless and warm warm warm. Although I would've loved to have taken Duncan to the zoo with us, it was not meant to be. While I spent most of the day walking back and forth between the elephant display and the Great Apes, very little of it was spent walking my dog. We did have some quality time this morning, though, and some good playtime at the park, tossing the stick, after we returned home. He was still quite bushed from yesterday's swim so our stroll this morning was leisurely and calm. I was a little concerned about getting everything done that had to be done before playing host to Kevi, Mike and The Boys and Duncan seemed to sense it. I was not as patient as I usually am (there were sheets to be washed, beds to be made, laundry to be folded and shopping still to be done!) but Duncan stopped dead in his tracks and turned his beautiful, freshly scrubbed face to the sky, closed his eyes and took a deep, long breath of Spring air. Floating above us in the perfect morning sky was a single little cloud and I smiled remembering the quote from Winnie the Pooh which appears on a coffee mug another good friend gave me twenty or so years ago. I took a Duncan Breath, a deep one and felt my stress melt away. After all, these are my oldest friends; so what if the pillow cases don't match the sheets! And I didn't mind that Duncan and I took our time getting back to the apartment afterward. There is much to be learned––and even more to be let go of––if we only take our time and enjoy the moment we're in, another lesson my dog seems to continually work at teaching me.

Double-Dipped

My car smells terribly of wet dog. It's a long ride from Stapleton to home and I think even Duncan was disgusted with his wet-dog scent by the time we arrived. Once home I made a bee-line for the tub, which I turned on and then went out looking for Duncan's big fluffy white towels and his shampoo. When I returned to the bathroom he'd already climbed inside and was waiting patiently for me to finish the job.It wasn't as fun as chasing geese around the pool with Maddie, but he smells nice now and has spent most of the night curled up asleep.

Firsts and Lasts

Duncan has never been a water dog. He simply does not enjoy it. He tolerates the occasional bath and has even voluntarily climbed into the tub to let me rinse the ice-balls from between his paws after a long, snowy walk in the park, but the whole notion of water has always made him nervous. I've watched him pace anxiously along the shore of many a pond, whining at the geese and ducks just out of range, and he's even taken a tepid step or two in, but inevitably reconsiders and turns his red back on the entire affair. Lately I've been thinking that with Spring coming on it would be a good time to give him a bath and good combing, especially since Kevi, Mike and The Boys will be spending the next two days with us. I haven't exactly been dreading it, but I have been plotting and planning how the whole thing will go down.

Duncan and I celebrated Chocolate Bunny Day by joining Kevi and her family at Rene and Donnie's for brunch and afterward I decided to take Dunc to visit Denise, our former neighbor at Stapleton. Denise is a good egg and I love her with all my heart. She was a true friend throughout my initial anxiety attacks and was one of the few people I've met since moving to Denver who I felt completely comfortable around. There is no pretense with her, which is a welcome change after years of working retail, which is nothing but pretense. Sadly, though, Denise and Martin, her husband, are moving to Missoula, taking their daughter Avery and, most importantly, Duncan's best friend, their Black Lab, Madi. I wanted to give them a chance to say their farewells, play hard and snarl at Hufflepuff, an unfortunately-named white and fluffy foo-foo dog who lives next door to Denise and Martin. Denise had other plans and we ended up going on a long walk through Stapleton, down Westerly Creek to the big pond at Central Park.

Madi, unlike Duncan, is very much a water dog. I can't tell you the number of walks I shared with Denise that ended up with Madi bounding into a pond to chase the ducks or the Killdeer which scurry around the bank or play the old Broken Wing game. Madi is enthusiastic about everything, especially water (as well as finding a way to plant her paws firmly against my testicles just about every time I see her). As we approached the big pool there was no question as to where Madi would land, but I did not expect what ended up happening. After watching Madi dive in and climb out half a dozen times, Duncan stepped up to the edge, kind of leaned forward and dove in after her.

Denise and I cheered and I found myself clapping ecstatically, my heart welling up with pride. In three and a half years I'd never once seen my dog swim. I was a bit nervous and was fully prepared to dive in after him should the situation call for it, but he was fine on his own. In and out, over and over, and although he never quite mastered the devil-may-care force of Madi's leaps, he dove nonetheless. And to add to my pride, he even followed a small gaggle of geese around the perimeter of the pool, paddling furiously to keep up, his nose and eyes the only parts of him I could see. It made me want to dance.

And then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended. We made the long walk back to Denise's house where I said my farewells to Martin and Avery, hugging Denise while Duncan and Maddie chased each other around the yard one last time. They are good people and although I haven't seen them as often as I'd like, Denver will seem a little emptier without them. I know Duncan will miss Madi but neither of us will forget his first swim with her paddling at his side, a friendship only dogs know.

A Painted Walk

If I was an artist––a painter, or someone who can sketch and draw––I would paint tonight, the softness of the snow and rain on the grass, a color that I don't think can be rendered on canvas. A sort of muted gray-green peeking through a white that is dark and not really white under this cloudy sky and the orange street lamps. I only know it as white because that's what new, thin snow is supposed to be. I would want to paint the droplets that collect on my glasses and the colors they reflect, the green and red of the stoplight and again, that street lamp color which fades in and out as the lights flicker on then off, blurring my vision, turning the night into a kind of puzzle––with whole squares distorted and jumbled, like a windshield in a storm––which my brain is somehow able to reassemble into something that makes sense. I would want to paint the shine on the road and the striking of the flakes and drops on its mottled surface and the way light seems so alive just above it, moving as the water does, catching and holding, shimmering like a breathing black snake. I'd want to paint the soft prints of my dog, the trail we leave behind when we walk, the wind and wet in our faces, but not uncomfortably so, cold in a way that makes us aware of the warmth of our cheeks and the insides of our lips. Paint cannot render scent or flavor but I'd want them to be a part of my portrait also. And sound. The swish of the cars on the road. The clear, snow-taste when I poke out my tongue and catch a flake. The smell of wet grass and wet dog and the tree I stand under while Duncan sniffs and searches for the perfect spot.

Those who know me know I have no ability to draw, except perhaps with my words. But it doesn't stop me from framing and composing, or my hand from twitching as an artist's hand does when it wants to create. I wish you could see what I would paint. But perhaps some night, when we are lucky enough to share a walk with Duncan, you will. And you'll turn to me and say, "This is what you were talking about." And I will smile and reach for your hand.

*Thru the Window, by Sneha Kulkarni, courtesy of the June 16, 2007 post on the blog, A Moon Lit Surface (sic)