The Run

We have a new favorite place to play in the morning when the grass is still wet and cool from the previous evening's rain and the sun is bright and not yet hot in the lightly dappled dream-blue sky.


Directly behind our apartment is a narrow strip of sloped land which runs between our complex and the golf course, starting where our back door would be if we had one and ending at The Glen. Were I thirty years younger and unconcerned with mud and gnats which float like moats in the air, it would be my home away from home, where I could hide with my Star Wars action figures while simultaneously envisioning the trolls and fairies who played under the bridge and lurked in the long grass which grows so high it leans forward under the weight of the morning dew. There are flowers there, daisies and greatbighuge violet-colored things which erupt from vines in tight clusters, and Creeping Thistles whose stems are as thick as Duncan's forelegs and whose purple heads grow taller than my own.

There is birdsong, too, from the robins who root for worms on the soft muddy slope, and the tiny brown birds who hop among the low shrubs and bushes, and black scoundrels with a nearly perfect red square on each shoulder. There are others, too, some whose voices sound like doors creaking open or corks being pulled from bottles. Some sound like questions and others like poems recited slowly and deliciously, the words and notes savored in the mouth like dripping, luscious fruit. If I spoke their language there would be much to learn and even more to celebrate on a June morning such as this. I don't speak it but that doesn't impair my ability to relish it, to let it lift me, to ride it while standing still in sunshine mottled shade.

I do speak Roo, though, a nearly wordless language conveyed mostly through smiles and the raising and lowering of eyebrows, the wagging of a tail, the height of a bound and the spring of a step. When he is off leash in The Run, darting to and fro, turning his head this way and that at the songs of the birds and the chitters of the squirrels, we understand that words are not necessary, that joy is universally understood and best when silent with a wide-eyed smile.

If my life consisted of nothing else but Summer mornings spent outside with my dog I could die a happy man and look God in the face and tell Him or Her my salvation was earned through the fullness and jubilance of these brief moments.

Duncan & Me

"A dog has no use for fancy cars or big homes or designer clothes. A waterlogged stick will do just fine. A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart and he'll give you his. How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?"

(from the film Marley & Me)

Tireless and Dull

We have somehow managed to limp through the past two days. My ankle has been bothering me again and last night was the worst it's been, keeping me up long after Duncan and I should have met for our dream walk. I climbed out of bed, scattering the cats who'd nestled around me and downed four ibuprofen in the darkness of the bathroom. Once I finally managed to doze off, tossing and turning long hard hours, Duncan woke me up gagging and sputtering. I got dressed, staggered down three flights of stairs and sat in the cool grass with him stroking his back as he ripped and chewed at the grass. I watched the stars turn slowly and closed my eyes in the Russian Olive-scented breeze coming across the golf course. At long last we climbed the stairs and returned home. Duncan scooted under the futon and while he snored and hummed in his sleep, I could only lay awake and listen to him breathe, fearful of letting sleep take me again 'less he needed to hurry back outside for another walk through the damp grass.

The alarm called for me at 5:30 and began what would become an exhausting day. We walked down to the end of the way and stood under the big lightning-struck cottonwood. The ants were busy on the sidewalk, repairing the small mounds they build between the cement slabs. Every night the sprinklers undo their work and every morning they begin anew, tireless and dull in their determination. And that's how I felt, plodding to and from work, up and down the stairs, back and forth across the apartment, singing songs to Duncan or reading aloud to him to forget how lonely and tired this day has left me.

But our walk tonight across the grass and in the silence of the darkness was perfect. There was a strange, unexpected comfort in the sound of a plane breaking over the Rockies and banking for the long turn north toward the airport. The crickets have not yet begun to sing but two robins, startled out of their tree by our passing, called after us, an out-of-place eerie sound in the night, hollow and sudden. Duncan kept time with me, unleashed and free but choosing to stay close, occasionally pressing his nose into the warm spot behind my knee, bending to lick the ankle I'm still limping on.

Tonight, climbing into bed, I feel like the ants, tireless and dull as I await the sprinklers and then the all the work of the coming dawn.

Sudden Stripe

It has rained nearly every day for as long as I can remember. It seems once the last of the late-Spring snows melted our small corner of the world was drenched in rains, the drops sometimes light and barely noticeable except for the dusty marks they leave on the hoods and windows of our cars, sometimes torrential, nearly submerging our streets and painting our world in Jackson Pollock drips and smears. Lately Denver has seen tornadoes, right in the city, dropping out of the skies with grace and shocking speed, causing little damage and fading away as quickly as they appeared. And then sometimes the rains are merely loud.

Yesterday morning, as he was sitting on the bed in his room, Brady had a front row seat to the suddenness of Denver's spring weather. A bolt of lightning struck one of the three large cottonwoods just outside his window. It's a tree Duncan and I walk beneath every day, sometimes several times, always pausing long enough to admire the thick veins of bark and the highways of ants which travel up and down it. The lightning wrapped around the trunk in two jagged stripes, one on each side, both winding their way from up high among the gray-green leaves, peeling back the thick bark like a pulled hangnail, as it traveled down to the damp earth, leaving a wide cratered fingerprint between two fat roots. It must have been quite the sight, the dark mid-morning illuminated, the tree a sudden enormous sparkler. Brady heard the crack, deafening in his room, but before he had time to turn the window exploded around him, the glass shattering into tens of thousands of pieces, a deadly flashing kaleidoscope. Chunks of bark hurtled through the window and ricocheted around the room as he threw himself to the floor to safety. He spent much of the rest of the day cleaning the room and having his brother pull chunks of glass and slivers of wood from his back and scalp, marveling that he was alive at all.


It is a tree I have always loved, bigger around at its base than I am tall, taller than the three-story buildings we live in. It is the last tree to lose its leaves in Autumn, offering shade and soothing windy whispers when everything else has undressed and stands stark in the slanted light. It is the last tree in Spring to pull its clothes back on, teasing me for weeks as Duncan and I pass beneath it in the morning and again in the afternoons and evenings., Brady hates the thing, and I suppose I would too if I'd watched it sway under the force of a summer storm, hearing the great boughs creak and moan under their own weight. But our experience has been different and so I love it and hope it does not die, that it will stand exactly as it is long after we have rested in its shade one last time.

Nature Dog

Duncan was recently presented with an incredible gift from Chelsea and Kathy who own and operate our favorite store, Hero's Pets–– a new collar custom made for him by Marchelle and Aaron, the good people at Nature Dog. It's an amazing collar, made from hand-cut leather and big round turquoise stones. It was a gift we will cherish for a very long time, not only because it's beautiful but because it's sturdy and well-crafted.



Please take the time to check out Nature Dog and if you see something you like place an order. There are numerous stones and styles to choose from. Marchelle and Aaron are happy to customize! And be sure to tell them Duncan and Curt sent you!

Great Big Morning

Duncan and I took an early stroll this morning on the tight little slope between the building and the golf course. The sky was bright and clear and the tall grass on the other side of the fence bent low in our direction as though reaching out to tickle or caress us as we passed. It was a perfect morning and Dunc ambled along beside me, his head low at the edge of the shrubs but occasionally turned skyward to take big galumping breaths of the blue, to catch the sun on the tip of his nose, to smile into the warm breeze.


This morning was a perfect morning, the kind of morning I wish I had been born on and the kind I can only hope to be fortunate enough to die on. The cottonwoods are snowing and each walk seems like moving through memory as the cotton wafts down on us, catching the sunlight dappling on the leaves and branches, catching our eyes and on our cheeks. Great drifts of the stuff line the flower beds and Duncan, deprived of snow as he was for most of the winter, has taken to snorting his way through them, exhaling loudly and raising clouds of fluff around his handsome head which he can chase contentedly after.


The Russian Olives are in bloom and their scent is breaking my heart even as it heals it. Two smalls trees grow directly behind my building and when I leave my windows open in the afternoon I return home to the most delicious and sweet smelling rooms I've lived in. Duncan and the cats perch in the windows all day, looking down on the squirrels and the falling cotton, breathing in the precious scent of my favorite tree, the scent I live all year to savor. The moment the yellow flowers appear in early June I feel my spirits lighten and know that the memory is enough to get me through another year.

We made our way down to The Glen where I sat on grass that was only faintly moist with the morning's dew, as faint as dreams that follow us a few steps back into the waking world. I laid back on it and watched the blue sky, bigger than I could put imaginary arms around, move through the tops of the Aspen trees far overhead, felt Duncan plop down beside me and roll onto his back, his feet sticking up into the air like bent twigs. He pressed his nose against my temple, snorted and thumped his tail against my hip as he twisted this way and that, capturing as much of the morning and the light as he could.

God, this morning was big and made my heart soar alongside that of my good red dog. This is what sweet, smelling, bright heaven must be like, with a million dogs running the fields, their companions smiling and following lazily after.

"To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring - it was peace. (Milan Kundera)"

Five Minutes

It was a beautiful night, a bit cloudy and cool, and the grass had somehow managed to stay wet despite a lack of rain. Pete's wife, who's name I still don't know, and Sara––companions to Ross, our new yellow lab friend, and Gil, of Gil-Peed-On-Duncan fame––were in relaxed and cheerful moods as they watched their dogs play in the wide lawn that flows between four of the buildings.

Spotting Gil, and not wanting to give Duncan another bath, I planned to slip through, say our hellos and head to the park, but Sara was tossing a ball for Ross while Gil lounged at his mistress's feet, his orange eyes rolling back in his mutt-shaped head while she stroked his belly. Ross spotted Dunc and trotted merrily up, dropping the ball at his feet, his tail swishing back and forth dragging his butt this way and that. Gil did a funny twist and climbed to his feet, sniffing between both Ross and Duncan. I dropped the leash and let the dogs play for a moment while we three grown-ups chatted.

And then the fight started. Duncan and Ross were chasing the ball and each other while Gil lagged behind. It was when Duncan plopped down on the ball and rolled over that Gil leapt forward, grabbed him around the neck, shook him hard as he turned him over and went for his throat. We all stiffened and jumped into action with Gil's mom leading the charge. She attempted to reach between the two dogs to separate them but Sara and I pulled her back and warned her against ever doing that in the future.

I expected the fight to peter out but it didn't. Gil caught Duncan's ear and made the most horrific noises while he thrashed about. Duncan twisted and snarled and pushed back against the German Wire-Haired Pointer but couldn't get the advantage. Finally I stepped between them, raised my foot and kicked Gil square in the face, pulling Duncan back as I did. Gil fell over, jumped back up and came at us from the other side where Sara was waiting with a clenched fist which she unleashed right into Gil's jaw. While his mother pulled him away by the collar, struggling against his ongoing snapping and growling and lunging, Sara and I knelt and tended to Duncan's ear, which was scratched and bleeding lightly but not damaged. I poured some water over it and because Dunc was anxious to play in the park we headed on our way.

Bowles is a six-lane road with a wide, grassy, tree-lined island running down the length of it. Duncan has been trained to sit and wait at the curb until I give the go-ahead and then dash beside me as quickly as we can to the shady island where we wait to cross to the park. We made it the island and because the wind had been fierce yesterday it was covered in downed sticks and branches. I spotted a nice brown one right at the tip of my shoe and as the traffic sped past us I reached down to grab it only to touch my fingers against the moist, scaly surface of a snake, pinned beneath my toe and attempting to curl around my ankle. Being deathly––absurdly, even––afraid of snakes my entire body seized up and spasmed as I leapt back, pulling Duncan, who'd been patiently sitting and waiting for the cars to clear. Before the snake had even slithered off into the long grass I dragged us across the street not feeling safe until we were on the other side.

I dropped Duncan's leash, scoured the ground for sticks and as we moved past the big willow and toward the side of the small hill on the north side of the lower soccer field, I found one, a solid one, fat and gray that did not slither and hiss. Duncan did his happy puppy dance as I peeled the loose bark from it then tossed it around the side of the hill and directly at the sixteen year old couple on the other side, one standing talking to his father on the phone, the other kneeling before him doing... certain things better suited for the back seats of cars than a public park.

"Dad, it's okay," the boy protested, looking directly at me as his girlfriend continued doing what she was doing. "We're at the park. Everything is cool. Believe me. I'll be home in an hour." He looked down at his girlfriend and smiled proudly.

My eyes widened when I realized what was happening. I hurried toward Duncan who was galloping straight at them.

"Roo! Come!" I called, at which point the girl stopped what she was doing and froze. Duncan looked at her, she looked at me and all I could think was, Okay, so if that was me, caught red-handed, so to speak, how would I want the grown-up to react?

So I did the only thing I could think of. I gave them both a thumbs up, grabbed Duncan's leash and hurried away.

All in five minutes.

Bitter Spring

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,
and you shall see that in truth you are weeping
for that which has been your delight. (Kahlil Gibran)

It has been heavy and gray in Denver for days, cold with a rain that falls in thick, relentless sheets, glowing around the lamp posts and knocking the flying, buzzing bugs out of the night. The ravine behind our building, dividing the property from the golf course, has turned into a swamp where blossoming Russian Olives, wilting lilies and knee-high grass rise up out of the gray, eddying water. We have been restless and cut-off with the windows closed, and our jogs outside have been huddled and brief as we pause only long enough for Duncan to tend to his business before we hurry back inside. Sleep begins and ends with the constant hollow pound of water on the windows, melting the lights and fragmenting our view of the world.

This afternoon, between downpours, I pulled on my tattered blue windbreaker, zippered it all the way up, cinched the hood around my head and rushed Duncan to the park for whatever brief moment of play we could capture. He trotted beside me, navigating his way through the puddled canals, not venturing far off the sidewalk where the grass is sickeningly damp, the ground beneath it slippery, too willing to slide beneath his feet, as treacherous as ice.

I led him to the far side of the park, just below the playground, red and yellow and green, where the new bunnies roost in the tall grass and then hide when they hear the jingle of his collar. Except tonight one bunny didn't move at all. We stalked carefully up the hill toward it, Duncan raising each foot slowly and stepping delicately, his ears high and alert, his back straight and long. Still the baby did not move. Duncan looked at me in that quizzical raised-eyebrow way of his and stopped, simply sat and waited. I curled his leash tight around my hand and stepped forward expecting the thing to dart away, stirring up the grounded starlings with its mad dash.

The poor thing was laying on its side, it's big brown eyes staring straight into the single scratch of blue in the sky, its breathing shallow and weak, pulling the air through lips which heaved desperately. Duncan laid down and waited for me to do something but there was nothing I could do. I called Chelsea who attempted to call several rabbit rescue groups in the area but was met with disconnected lines or voice mail recordings. She called me back and tried to reassure me that this is the way things go, and even though I understood it was difficult to watch poor Duncan, laying as he was in the mud, a concerned smile on his face, his tail occasionally thumping the wet grass, sending a storm of drops into the air around him, a soft whine humming up through his beautiful red throat.

We sat on the hillside for nearly an hour and a half watching its breaths grow softer until it was difficult to tell them from the breeze and the misting drizzle churning down the foothills around us. When it ceased to move at all Duncan sat up, whined again and waited while I said a prayer to the universe thanking it for the gift of this brief and joyous life which had brought such pleasure to my best friend and to me.

And as we walked home I could not help but feel that sometimes Spring can be every bit as bitter and ruthless as January.

Gil

There is a new dog here, a German Wirehaired Pointer who goes by the name of Gil. He's an ugly thing, tall and lanky with an unruly mop of spotted coarse brown fur and orange eyes. He looks like a mutt, the kind of dog which always smells bad, but his companion, Pete, a young guy who can't decide between a beard and a goatee, seemed quite proud telling me all about the breed. I only half listened, keeping my eye on Gil as he kept himself busy trying to mount poor Duncan, who was attempting to be polite, trying his hardest to avoid conflict by spinning in slow circles, always keeping Gil at his flank. He's quite willing to go along with just about anything, but the one thing Duncan won't tolerate is being mounted. After several attempts he turned and snapped at the red-eyed devil and reared back on his hind legs to demonstrate his authority. He is older than Gil, after all, and even though he's not quite as tall he's been roaming and marking these grounds since before the damn Pointer was even born. Pete seemed shocked at Duncan's behavior and said something about it.

"Well," I said. "Your dog is being is a bit domineering."

Pete shook his head. "Nope. No way. There's not a domineering bone in Gil's body," he told me and then went on to explain how Gil had been the sweetest little dog, blah blah blah, on and on, finally wrapping up with, "He's not the dominant type."

I glanced over to find Gil hovering above Duncan, his leg raised.

"Then why is he pissing on my dog?" I snapped as I pushed Gil out of the way and pulled Duncan to safety with only a little damage.

I don't think we'll be playing with them any time soon.

And it was time for a bath anyway.

Birdsong

On the south side of the lake, not too far from the prairie dog town, where the first of the trees spring up along the water's edge--my precious Russian Olives among them--I have spent the last several weeks watching two magpies build an enormous nest in the heart of a young elm tree, at the juncture between its trunks and three solid boughs. For a long time it has been a silent thing, like some forgotten and useless organ, flimsy looking and not very practical. But the magpies, purple in some light, an astonishing blue in others, but always mostly black and white, have been persistent and diligent gathering sticks and twigs and all manner of grasses and binding them together with mud. Yesterday, as Duncan and I strolled along the shore, we were awarded for their work by the feeble calls of a nest full of hatchlings. We stood a long moment under the tree watching the parents come and go, swooping low and gliding from the taller neighboring trees down to the nest. Upon their arrival the little ones erupted in a chorus of want and need and I could imagine five or six bald, pink heads rising up from a mass of grass and feathers, supported by impossibly thin and wavering necks. We stood there a long time as the other walkers passed us on the trail, Duncan sitting at the trunk looking up as a does when he's treed a squirrel, waiting for a glimpse of the singers, their parents chattering as they worked.

Neither of us could sleep last night. We'd had a full day of cleaning, long walks, a long bath and what seemed hours of brushing, and even though sleep came easily with Duncan's head perched on my hip as we cuddled on the couch, it did not last. When I finally dragged myself to bed a little after two, Duncan and the kittens padding down the hall after me, I was unable to drift off again. Duncan curled up on his big wide pillow at the foot of the bed and it seemed the two of us spent a good deal of time turning and sighing before the persistent call of an owl outside my window convinced us we needed to venture back outside for a starlight walk.

It was a cool night but still warmer than the days we had only a few weeks ago. The sky, which was supposed to have been cloudy was clear, and the Big Dipper has finally began to rotate into her summer spot. The sprinklers were turning on and off at the edges of the parking lots and hissed and misted around us. And from some unseen vantage our owl continued to call. Even after we'd stepped across the street and skirted the edge of the park––silent and glowing orange under the lamp posts–– the owl followed us. Duncan kept his nose low to the ground, not pulling as he is wont to do when he is more awake, and while I watched for the coyotes and fox which claim the park not long after the rest of us relinquish it to the night I also kept my eyes peeled for signs of our owl, which must've followed us. Its call did not fade the further away from home we moved but stayed always above and quite nearby concealed in shadow and the new growth in the trees.

Thirty minutes we walked with our invisible friend, serenaded by the coming summer. And once we returned home, climbing the thirty-seven stairs before falling into bed, the owl fell silent and let us find our dreams.

An Unexpected Kiss

It was not supposed to be a beautiful day, but the rain managed to pass overhead while we slept, leaving a wide blue sky in its wake. The sound of the drops striking the window and dripping off the roof to slap against the cars and the cement below kept us in bed long after we should have gotten up. By the time the cats, curled in their three familiar places, allowed me to stretch and slip my feet out from under the covers the rain had drifted eastward and the morning mist was just melting off in the thin, cautious sunshine.

As I stumbled down the hall into the kitchen for my morning tea I couldn't help but notice that Spring, slow and bashful this year, had exploded in a frenzy right outside my window. The tree which sits even with my desk and whose branches have offered the birds a lovely perch has erupted in wide green leaves, full and new and not yet inclined to droop with summer's weight. They are young and reflect the light, golden and delicate, not yet fierce, more truthfully than any mirror. Olive has taken to sitting on the sill in the tall window to watch the little brown birds, or the dark ones with the red swatch on the tips of their wings, humming and cooing to them, trying her hardest to whistle at them, lure them somehow through the screen and onto her whiskers where she promises to let them perch.

Not knowing how long the sun would last I turned the red tea kettle on low, leashed up Dunc and took him to the park, crossing under the three giant cottonwoods, barely green and still mostly gray but magnificent nonetheless. The park had filled up with the Saturday soccer throngs so we took the back way around to the management office where Duncan surprised the bunnies earlier this week. It's become his new favorite spot, shaded and cool, nestled as it is against Rebel Hill.

The bunnies were out again this morning, three of them, their tiny backs rising out of the grass like furry mushroom caps. Duncan spotted them a long way off but neither of us kept our eyes on them for long. Almost immediately a rather gangly doe scampered zig zags down the hill in our direction, bounding over the little ones and sending them running for cover amid the downed soccer goal posts and discarded street lamps. She paused only a moment at the edge of the lane directly across from us, sniffed the lilac-scented air and hopped forward.

I tightened my grip on Duncan's leash and moved in closer to him as his body tensed, pressing my thigh against his ribs where I could feel his every movement. His eyes trained on the advancing rabbit, who either did not see us or did not care we were there. Duncan leaned slowly forward as she moved within range, his tongue slipping into his mouth while he held his breath. Still she came, passing to our left, a foot away, her ears up, her body far more relaxed than I've seen from a rabbit so close.

Duncan was stone. I was stone. The rabbit, however, was not. While we stood motionless and as silent as statuary, she stopped, looked at us and blinked, sat back on her hind legs, leaned forward, paws dangling limply at her billowy white chest, and touched her nose to Duncan's. The world stopped, the traffic on Bowles and in the parking lot fell silent, as did the noise of the soccer drones and the four games of baseball coming from the diamonds. Even the breeze fell dead at my feet as all the morning's sunlight focused on that single spot at the joining of their noses.

And then it was over, as though some spark drove them apart even as it drove the world back into motion. Duncan lunged, she jerked, skidded one way then the other and then darted around the side of the building, her body lean and taut, her ears flat against her back. Duncan's mouth fell open as he took a great galumph of air and pulled me in her direction. I dug in my heels and pulled back on the leash until he stopped and sat hard in the pine needles all around us, his tail swishing through and scattering them.

I knelt down and touched my nose to his, the place where they had kissed, he and the rabbit, looked into his eyes and wondered if she had seen what I have always seen: innocence and joy, delight and gratitude for the unexpected, a profound appreciation for all the surprises life throws our way. No wonder she could not resist him. Not many can.

Delight

The world is suddenly overflowing with baby rabbits, cinnamon and bark-colored balls whose hops are barely discernible above the jagged line of the tall grass. I could cup three of them in my open palm at one time and still have room left over. From my third story windows Duncan looks down on two patches of grass and spends his days watching the bunnies, babies and otherwise, covert, lounge and sprawl out on their sides, half sleeping as their ears droop lower and lower while the honey bees glide over them.

This afternoon at the park, behind the management office where the broken goal posts and street lamps lay in rusted, discarded piles we watched two babies pounce in tight circles around each other, darting in and out of the hollow, steel posts and then back again, both completely oblivious to our presence until their mother appeared, ears raised and back tight. They paused, as though listening to her and then scampered for safety into the post. I released Duncan from his leash and he sprang forward, nose pressed low, head moving swiftly back and forth from side to side tracing the path of their romping. From where I stood three feet away I could hear the bunnies scampering down the length of the pipe. Duncan followed their sound and a moment later they emerged from the other end, their eyes wide, the joy of galloping delight still spread across their tiny, elven faces.

I'm not sure if they saw Duncan standing directly over them when they stepped back out into the damp Spring afternoon, but when he leaned down, his mouth open, his tail wagging, and touched his nose to their backs, his pink tongue flicking across them both in a big sloppy mess, they jerked and did a little hop which startled poor Roo and caused him to mimic them, shooting straight up into the air, his feet straight lines pointed at the ground. They darted back into the dark safety of the post and peeked out at us, one standing on the back of the other. When Duncan flopped down on his belly and crawled toward them, pressing his nose into the tight opening, they turned tail and scampered back toward the other end. He smiled and followed the clattering sound of their tiny feet and met them once again when they peered out.

Back and forth, back and forth they played. I could've stood there in the misting rain and watched the three of them for hours, those new bunnies and my big-hearted golden friend.

On the Radio

Recently Chelsea, friend and owner of Hero's Pets–– was a guest on the internet radio program Awakening Denver. She spoke for an hour about natural, healthy pet products and had a lot of interesting things to say about the pet food industry as well as general pet care and nutrition.

You can listen to the entire interview either from Hero's home page or here. Simply look under Past Shows for the April 22nd show titled "Natural Pet Products--Doggone Good." There's even a shout-out to Duncan, myself and the blog somewhere in there. It's a great program and Chelsea did quite well. Not only that but you can learn a heck of a lot about what's good for your animal companion and what isn't. Let me know what you think, and if you have time, drop Chelsea a note at herospets@gmail.com.

A Single Moment

It was not the whistle of the robin, big and fat, round like some sort of exotic brown-skinned fruit hanging in the tree, or the glad faces of the ever-overlooked dandelions, mangy but decadent and unapolgetic in their brilliance, peeking out from the fraying blanket of snow which fell this morning and then seeped away this afternoon under a warmer but gray sky. It was not the pink ribbon, tied as it was to one of the large goal posts on the soccer field, flapping in the cold breeze, dancing and struggling first one way, then the other against the bonds of its own folded tail.

It was the girl, curled up as she was not far from the big willow where we often spend Sunday mornings sitting. We heard her before we saw her, perched on the cement wall where the small, sometimes invisible stream passes under the parking lot. The willow has not yet begun to sprout leaves along its tendrils, but she was nearly invisible behind its sweeping arms. She was young, probably no more than fifteen, and her blond hair was a mop pulled back behind her head, a few stray locks brushing loose against her cheek, tickling the bone-white nape of her neck. Her black pee coat was pulled tight around her gangly body, its collar turned up, her knees tucked up near her chest.

She was singing uninhibitedly in a buttery, coffee alto, a tune so soft and light not even the breeze could carry it very far. Duncan paused in his walk and leaned toward where she sat, his ears cocked high, his head turned softly into the melody. I knelt down next to him and watched him listen to her, captivated by the music both of them made, serenaded on this cold Spring afternoon by the stranger whose song my dog fell in love with.



*Image courtesy of Yahoo Images

Lullabies and Magic

It was a wet night, with solid sheets of rain painting the sidewalks in shades of Van Gogh, colors blending together and bleeding the way they do under pounding wet. Even Duncan did not want to spend much time dallying under the tall lamp post where the water glowed in bone-white sheets around us. But loving the smell of April rain we stood on the patio and watched it come down, battering the puddles which collected in the parking lot thirty-seven steps below, the ghostly sheen of the street light shimmering like a brilliant eye just below the inch-deep surface.


We went to bed--Duncan curled on the pillow next to me, his Bully resting just beyond his nose and under one curled paw where he can be sure of its presence even as he sleeps-- with a lullaby of pattering drops whispering us to sleep. At some point Winnie, Pip and Olive joined us in their usual spots, Pip tucking his cold, pink nose into my shoulder and purring in time to the rain.

We awoke to a new, old world this morning and as terrible as I knew it would make the traffic, I also knew Duncan would be overjoyed. He hadn't believed me last week when I explained that the snow was most likely our last of the season. He always seems to know more than I do and listens to me patiently in that cocked eyebrow way of his before deciding that my two legs and short nose somehow impair my senses. It doesn't matter, though, because he holds no grudges. He was curled on his pillow next to Pooh Bear and seemed reluctant to rouse until I pulled the blinds open and showed him the snow which had fallen steadily all night, gathering in an ice cream blanket around the tall pines where he likes to roll. Once he saw it his eyes lit up and he hardly paused to stretch before ambling down the hall to the door where I had his leash and my boots waiting for us.


The true joy of having a dog as a companion is the wonder they bring to every morning, making them as magical as Christmas.

Things Remembered

There are a plethora of things I struggle to remember, such as the four constantly changing user-names and passwords assigned to me at work, or the combination of the safe, or even my own phone number, but Duncan, my genius dog, remembers each and every place he's every spotted a rabbit, chased a squirrel or found a tennis ball.

Our walks--through the park, down Leawood, or even around the lake--have become an exercise in memory as Duncan forces me to wait while he inspects the hedges in the yard in front of the apartment, or the lumpy lawn just off the patio behind Hopps Bar and Grill. There are easily ten different spots at the edge of the lake in front of the retirement community which demand his attention, and the entirety of the square cinder block management office at the park where the rabbits have set up a home base of sorts. First we sneak down on them from the side of Rebel Hill, yellowed and crumbling with slowly drying mud. Then we pace the edge of the chain-link fence where they roost on the safe side, their backs turned to us in feigned indifference, an act which drives Roo crazy, eliciting whines and pants and the occasional leap forward, all which cause them to rocket under a nearby shed or parked golf cart. Once the herd has been scattered he pulls me around the side and front of the building, sometimes right up to the office door where rabbits been known to crouch in the bushes like breathing rocks. I have lost track of the number of yards in Leawood where Duncan has hunted, but our constant exploration of those places has earned us familiar waves from the home-owners, many of whom remember his name. "Hello, Duncan," they call, holding their hands out for his inspection. "I haven't seen any rabbits today, but come back tomorrow!" they encourage him, running their fingers through the long curls on his back and patting his hind end as he moves on to the next hedge row. He pauses at countless trees in search of a squirrel he once chased up its trunk and scours the edge of the baseball diamonds for the balls which sometimes roll away and are forgotten. Once, a few months ago he pulled me along the fence where he'd once sniffed out the brightest green tennis ball in his collection only to find a discarded athletic cup lurking under the dead leaves. There is very little that escapes his attention and even less that slips out of his head.

Except for one thing. While I still struggle with my address he has difficulty remembering we live on the third floor. He's content to climb one flight of stairs and head to the first apartment on his left. It takes a great deal of coaching to convince him he has one more set of stairs to go and it's never accomplished without a disapproving, furrowed brow sort of side glance and a deep, heavy sigh before he follows after me.

It's been a month, and most walks around the complex inevitably take us past our old apartment, which has been painted, carpeted, refurbished and finally looks ready for new tenants. I try to pass by without reflecting too hard on the changes we've been through as of late but Duncan, Finder of Rabbits, Squirrels and Balls, always leads us up the walk, down the breezeway and to our old front door, where he pauses as though waiting for me to remove his leash and guide him inside.


He never forgets.

Decade

Ten years ago tonight I was sitting in my dining room with Ken and April, Nikki and Ashley, our two Golden Retrievers, curled at our feet under our big oak table, while Winnie and Pip cuddled on the soft downy top of their tall kitty condo, half dreaming, half awake at the sounds of our laughter mixed with talk of the plans we were making. Our bags were packed and sitting near the door, two Frontier Airline tickets resting atop them. We'd eaten dinner and were discussing the early morning drive to Midway, the things April needed to do to tend to the animals, my anxiety over the entire trip. There had even been a great amount of talk about the shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton which had taken place earlier that day. At some point I stepped outside to let The Girls out, stood in the newly greening and damp grass in our backyard and smoked a cigarette while watching the stars move slowly across the sky. I could hear the soundtrack to Evita playing from inside while Ken and April did the dishes, the gentle chink of the tags on The Girls collars as they sniffed out the yard. I remember feeling like my life was on the cusp of a dramatic change and not liking it one bit. I have never been good at such things and despite my dislike for my job at CDW and the monotony of life in quiet, remote Round Lake Beach, there was comfort in its predictability, safety in routine.


Duncan and I walked the park today and only barely managed to safely navigate the flood of news vans and media which had gathered to mark the 10th anniversary of the shootings which took place at the high school across the street. It was not a pleasant walk, surrounded by sad faces and heavy hearts huddled together under the same blue sky that rose overhead ten years ago. Duncan was anxious and we didn't actually find peace in our walk until much later, when I took him out after dinner under a clear, darkened sky, the stars shining down as a warm April breeze carried the scent of the lake to us. It was the same sky I saw all those years ago in Illinois with the same constellations, only very little of that life remains. April has married and had children and we are no longer in contact, despite an immaculate and untouchable friendship. Nikki and Ashley have crossed the Rainbow Bridge and Winnie and Pip, while still full of vim and vigor, are nearly thirteen and spend far more time napping in the sunlit windows than they do chasing each other. Even Ken, who I always counted on as my constant, the one person who would always stand at my side, isn't here. I don't even own the same clothes I packed and carried across the country. It's all I can do to remember this new address.

But at least I have Duncan and our walks and the stars. On nights like tonight, when my heart feels like it's breaking, there is tremendous comfort to be found in those simple things.

While Watching the World

It has been a cold and gray weekend, wet and misty in the mornings, like a dream that lasts well beyond the pillow and continues to brush across my eyes even as I sip my morning tea and sit in silence before the windows looking out on my new third-story perspective of the world. The cats, when not cuddling on my chest, love the windows and spend most of their days on the wide sills, their eyes only half open, the very tips of their tails twitching with the darting of the little brown birds which flit from branch to branch in the tree below us. Even Duncan has taken to spending a good deal of his day in the window, watching the patch of green directly beneath us for the soft rock-shaped bodies of the bunnies he's fallen in love with, or the nervous undulations of the squirrels who scurry across the parking lot and play near the safety of the wiry tree trunks. My desk faces north west, across the golf course, over an enormous red barn and toward the mountains, which have been invisible for three days. Even our narrow little patio, crowded by the grill and my bike, offers a southwesterly view of the park and the continuing line of Colorado's Front Range, where I can sit and watch the cranes circling overhead, their spindly legs dragging behind, carried aloft by their wide and enormous wings. With all this space around us and these tall, nearly room-wide windows, there is no way to help but look.


Still, I prefer to spend my time on the ground, where I can see things close up, where I can pause and run my fingers along the leather-colored skin of a leaf which made it through the winter intact and beautiful. I love to be able to pause and trace the thick, ridged bark of the cottonwoods with my eyes, imagining the ant highways and cities which will appear on them in only a few weeks. On days like today, when the streets are painted in fine water, reflecting the light and echoing the swish of the cars which move over them like some bright but vague jazz painting, I like the feel of the mist kicked up by the spinning tires. Duncan has taught me to pause at those moments and raise my face into it, eyes closed, and relish the sensation of a million tiny drops barely kissing my cheeks, my forehead and chin.

We walked this morning when there was hardly any traffic, when the sky was low, flirting with the tops of the trees, and then again late in the afternoon, when the mist had lifted but could still be felt with each step we took. It was cold but I could sense, even if I couldn't quite see, the presence of Spring all around, like the water in the air which was collecting in our hair and on my glasses, flavoring our tongues with each breath. Spring is an elusive thing in this part of the world, slow to come and then gone before you notice it. It teases and tricks, and like a ghost you can never seem to look directly at it, only notice its vague shape and movement from the corner of your eye. But every now and then, when the world thinks you're not paying attention, you can see it, in the still-naked trees with their barely perceptible halos of green at the edge of their branches, in the bushes, which teem with frolicking tiny birds, each singing as though they've only just learned how, only to fall silent and motionless when you pass too close.

Everything is a game to Spring, but I never grow tired of playing and sharing.

Thick Skins

Even as I work to figure out my new place in the world, it seems the world has been doing much the same. The skies have alternated between sunny and warm and overcast and gray, almost white. One day we have snow, the next it's nearly hot. This morning we awoke to a fine dusting of snow, which had fallen on top of a misty midnight rain. As Duncan and I strolled the park, the snow––lighter than pillow feathers––seemed to waft out from beneath our feet as the grass, crusted in a fine layer of ice, rustled like wax paper under the weight of each of our steps. By mid-afternoon the sun toyed with the idea of coming out and the snow melted away. Duncan and I ventured out on the patio where we could watch the low clouds play with the foothills above the park. By sundown, however, the rain and snow were taking turns teasing us and the wind was fiercely cold. We tried to play in The Glen but all either of us really wanted to do was hide. So we came back home to continue unpacking and watching the world do what the world does from our new third story windows.



While I sat in the window and watched a bunny in the yard far below, Duncan sprawled on the couch and outside the trees did what trees do when the snow batters their thick skins.

I Will Walk

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After the washer and drier have been hoisted up three flights of narrow stairs, the couch and armoire and every other heavy piece of furniture I own lugged up after them, after the countless over-packed boxes of books, kitchen gadgets, clothing, desk junk, CDs and DVDs, and every other manner of minutiae clogging my life have been tossed into their respective rooms to be opened and sorted, after all the good, kind people who have squeezed my shoulder, offered hugs, listened while I struggled through this have gone, after Mom and Casey––who traveled all this way to lend their support and muscle, to be here for me when I needed them most, enduring the snow and the cold and the treacherous roads––have climbed into their rented Jeep and driven away, leaving me once again alone in a parking lot watching them turn the corner and slip from view, what do I do?

I stood a long time in the parking lot yesterday, the near-constant drip of melting ice and snow playing like a percussive symphony all around me. I remembered that afternoon in Lake Forest seventeen years ago, after the three of us had driven across the country to deliver me to the college of my choosing. After unpacking my room and meeting my roommate they gave me my hugs, tried their hardest to hide their tears and then climbed into the car and drove away, leaving me to build an entire life from nothing. This time, though, things were different; I had a life of my own, but as I climbed those thirty-seven stairs and came into my apartment, the sun sitting on the downward side of its westerly travels, its light spraying my office and living room in deep gold, I couldn't seem to remember exactly what it was and I didn't know exactly what to do with it.

What do you do when everything you know and love seems so far away, when the objects you've surrounded yourself with seem like empty relics and you can't quite remember what they meant or why? I stood for a long time––an hour maybe––trying to remember who I was and what I was supposed to do, feeling more than seeing the sun sink below the jagged line of the mountains, casting my small corner of the world into cool, blue shadow.

It took a long time, working through the numb and then the anger and sadness, but eventually I remembered. At least one little part of it.

I did what I always do. I walked with my best friend, let him lead me across the street to the park where he entertained me with rolls through the snow, snorting and cavorting as though everything would somehow, in some nearly inconceivable way be alright again. If not now, soon.

And when Duncan and I returned to this new home, I dug through boxes until I found the first piece of this new life puzzle––a Christmas gift from my mother––and I hung it on the wall in the door exactly where it belongs.


And somehow it made things a little better.

Seven

Today Sue at Random Ramblings tagged me to name seven things I love (she thought it would make me feel better and already my heart is a little warmer). Thanks for thinking of me, Sue!

In no particular order, here are seven things I love (not most, just love):

• Obviously I love my family, especially the memories we have shared, from my mother removing her sunglasses and handing me a can of beer in order to retrieve our dog Skeeter from the murky depths of the Blackfoot Reservoir, to Casey singing songs we made up while riding in our camper on weekend getaways when we were young. I love Kevin's laugh and his dislike for mushrooms and chocolate.
• My kids, Winnie, Pip, Olive, and, of course, Duncan.
  
• Idaho in the early summer, when the mountains are still green and the smell of sage and Russian Olive trees rise up all around.
• I love my best friends in the whole world: Ruth, who spends her time super-heroing with me in our off-hours; Kevi, whose stories of food poisoning in foreign locations remind me to never take myself too seriously; David, for being my Jewish mama; Jen, for being able to harmonize to anything, including a fart; and Kelly, my "Good Friend."
  
• My Illinois restaurants, The Hoagie Hut in Highwood, where it's best to order a cheese-steak, bacon hoagie and a medium root beer, and Salutos, where everything is good, especially the salad.
• The magic of words, making my own, as well as those of others, such as Tom Spanbauer, Mary Oliver, Tim Muskat, Phil Simmons, Michael Cunningham, Jonathan Franzen, Michael Chabon, Geoffrey Eugenides and John Irving.
• Ken, with all my heart.

And because seven is simply too small a number I've also thrown in some random loves: peanut sauce, new socks, clean sheets, Orion and Venus, tres leches, butterflies and dragonflies, the music of Patty Griffin, the quiet moment of darkness before the sun rises when all the world is holding its breath, Egg Foo Yung, the Grand Canyon, riding my bike down a hill in the sunshine, a brand new pack of Sharpie markers, how much Duncan loves Brady, writing about, campaigning door to door and voting for Barack Obama, the French Quarter, Devil's Tower, Miss Katie's Diner in Milwaukee, acupuncture, and more things than I could name.

And now to pick seven other blogs to tag. You know the drill: once you've been tagged you have to pass it along to seven others.

Property of Kelly
Fermented Fur
The Midnight Garden
Charlie!
Mackenzie Speaks!
A Red Dog in the Red Rocks
Life is Golden


Thank you, Sue, for including me and making me think of the things I love most. It's easy to forget when life does that thing it occasionally does.