Home

It was a long drive from Lowry, the yellowed-grass and nearly treeless former military base where I work, down Quebec, which can't seem to decide if it wants to be one lane or two, to the endless stretch of Hampden, which crosses over the wide lanes of I-25, down the hill to the golf course and on and on until it reaches Santa Fe, the final industrial-zoned stretch of road before I'm home. It is a grueling drive and not scenic at all. Rather I'm often choked by the diesel fumes belched out by the endless convoy of garbage trucks on their way to the landfill. The sky had turned into one long, asphalt-colored mass overhead, devoid of streaks or formations, and the first warm drops of rain were beginning to strike the windshield by the time I arrived, not enough to merit leaving the wipers on but just so much that they streaked and smeared without wiping clean away. The short walk from the car, parked under the Linden tree, which has already begun to shed it's yellowed leaves, up the thirty-seven steps to my front door, seemed impossibly long.

Until I looked up and spotted a familiar face in the darkened window, a pink tongue lolling out of a grinning mouth, ears perked up and alert.

Duncan was waiting for me, joyous and dancing. Before slipping the key into the lock and turning the knob I stood and listened to his feet on the tile, counted the erratic  rhythm of his tail beating between the door and the wall, was grateful for the sound of him before my fingers had even touched the pointed top of his lovely head, felt the wetness and soft pressure of his mouth on my wrist as he pulled me inside.

I am home, I thought. I am home where I am safe. And loved.

Double Two

The family was playing catch in the park. They, and the friends who'd joined them, were young, perhaps only in their mid-20's. It was a perfect day with temperatures in the low 70's. The sky to the north and west was threatening to cloud over but the air was warm and without a breeze. The men and their young sons had their shirts off while they tossed the ball. The grass was green all around them and because the sun was so bright the shadows of the trees were crisp and dark. The smell of hamburgers drifted across the soccer field from the grill where the two women––no more than girls, really––tended to lunch, spreading the buns and jars of condiments on the picnic table, checking the patties, chatting softly amongst themselves over the portable CD player they'd brought. Two daughters, uninterested in the baseball or the cooking were wandering across the field gathering sticks from the grass. The blond girl was taller and older than her companion, a child not yet four, who wore shorts and a diaper. When they spotted Duncan and me trotting along the edge of the hillside overlooking the big willow they stumbled toward us in that way children have when they run and their legs are still not quite yet used to it.

Duncan did not want to tend to business. Most walks he'll go as soon as I simply show him the bright green plastic bag with the words "Poopy Pouch" printed across the front beneath a cartoon of a squatting dog. Once he sees that he'll begin sniffing until he finds his spot and then, after I turn my back, will take care of things. But today he did not want to. He looked at me with the kind of vacancy most people reserve for foreigners and merely trotted along. "Duncan, go!" I urged him. "When you go we'll take a long walk down Leawood and hunt for bunnies." His ears perked at their mention but he soon lost interest. So we wandered here and there, up to the skate park and finally down to the long grass and reeds that grow around the willow. I figured the privacy might be beneficial but he didn't care and pulled me up the hillside. After wandering back and forth for a few minutes he seemed to have found what he was looking, that perfect place in the long, cool grass. It was when he started to squat that the little girls spotted us.

They squealed and ran straight toward us. "Puppypuppypuppypuppy," the little one chanted as she climbed the hill on her fat, unsteady legs. Duncan stood up quickly, as though caught in the act and wagged his tail as they approached. I sighed and put a smile on my face, giving him the hand signal to sit and wait.

They paused a few feet away. "Can we pet your dog?" the older one asked. Once I gave them permission they stepped forward and began stroking Duncan's back and shoulders, running their little fingers over his ears and across his nose. The stains on their faces and hands told me they'd been eating ice cream. Duncan began lapping at them, moving back and forth between the two until they giggled loudly.

"What is his name?" the blond asked.

"Duncan," I told her.

"Duncan," she said as though feeling the word in her mouth for the first time. "That's an awkward name," she frowned. "Are you walking Duncan?"

"I sure am," I said. "I'm trying to get him to go potty."

The older one nodded thoughtfully. The little one stepped up. "Doesn't he like to potty?" she asked.

"Sometimes he does but I think he's shy."

She nodded. "I'm not shy," she said thoughtfully. And then, a moment later added "And I like to potty." Then, without hesitation, she arched her back, farted loudly and promptly filled her diaper, grinning wildly at me as she went.

That was all the approval Duncan needed. He immediately squatted and did the same.

It's a glamorous life I lead.

To:

People have been trying to understand dogs ever since the beginning of time. One never knows what they’ll do. You can read every day where a dog saved the life of a drowning child, or lay down his life for his master. Some people call this loyalty. I don’t. I may be wrong, but I call it love––the deepest kind of love. (Wilson Rawls)

Mrs. Coons,

I was terrified of you throughout most of the third grade and as the end of the year approached I'd find myself whispering into my pillow, hoping God would hear me, or under my breath as I entered the building at the start of the school day, passing your classroom across from the library, praying that my name would not be on your fourth grade roster at the start of the next school year. And who could blame me? You were a stern figure with a tight and set face, a mop of dark hair cut short and curling in the remnants of a beehive. Your posture was purely military, straight and rigid with your fists clenched as tight as baseballs at your side. No one wanted to be in your class because the older kids whispered rumors to us on the playground, telling us how strict and unyielding you were, what a monster you could be when angered or provoked.

But then it happened. That fall, as my mother held my hand outside the building where the classroom assignments were taped to the brick, we read my name on your roster and I thought I was going to vomit. I remember trembling and trying so hard just to walk as we took Casey to her first grade class before turning and moving down the long hallway to your room. It was with fearful steps that I crossed your threshold and scanned the desks for my name before taking my seat. I remembered Jimmy Little on his first day of third grade, entering Mrs. Ashton's classroom, crying hysterically and vomiting all over the oblong carpet at the front of the room. The moment it happened I knew that we would forever remember Jimmy, taller than the rest of us, yellow-haired and impossibly thin, like a piece of straw. He was forever set in our minds, retching and sputtering, tears streaming down his face, flailing and screaming. And years later, when he played football for the rival high school, I kept that image in my mind and told the few football player friends I had that beneath it all he was just a frightened, puking child. I refused to be a Jimmy Little, refused to spill my guts on the floor or even let my mother know how terrified I was. I watched her slip away and turned to the friends from the previous year who'd also had the misfortune to be assigned to you.

Of course you were everything that had been reported to us by the survivors of your classroom, but you were also so much more and I had no idea that to this day you would become the teacher I most miss, the one I still yearn to find and thank. That was the year Paul Hunt, the chubby kid from Manitoba, was my best friend, the year I had an insane crush on Marlies Rowe, the pretty red-headed girl, the year I learned the difference between there, their and they're, the year I first read Where the Red Fern Grows, and the year I learned to write.

We had weekly writing assignments and while my classmates––Todd Bell, who would go on to become the all-state wrestling champ, Brandon Carter, a talented artist who would squander it on drugs and booze by the 8th grade, and David Davis, who we knew was gay before we knew what gay was––dreaded the chore, I loved it and they loved my love of it. At the end of the week we had to read our stories aloud standing at our desks, but you always asked the class whose story they wanted to hear first. Mine, inevitably, was always chosen. I remember writing about an Excedrin headache even though I didn't know what one was. At Thanksgiving there was a story about Squanto and the pilgrims that had the class laughing. At Christmas before you got sick and left us I read a story about two toothbrushes falling in love and though I had grown use to the approval of my classmates it was your smile and laughter I most sought.

And then you were gone. You explained that you were sick and would be taking some time away from us. Mrs. Hegstead, the daughter of my neighbor, took over the class for the rest of the year, and although she was warm and wonderful, short and pink-cheeked, fun in every way, she was not you. In desperation I remember hunting for your name in the phone book and being shocked to find it. I called you to read you a story, apologized for disturbing you but you assured me I could call and read to you any time I liked. And so I did, checking in with you every few weeks, feeling more and more at ease with each conversation. I read and reread Where the Red Fern Grows because it was your favorite book. And at the end of the year, when you came to our party and told us you'd be moving to Boulder, Colorado to live with your son, I was heartbroken that I would not see you again. But as the final bell rang and the classroom emptied, you slipped me a card with a note that read, "Curt, you must promise me you will never stop writing, that you will always strive to bring a smile to the faces of others as you have done with your classmates and with me." I have it still. Thirty years later.

Today, walking Duncan in the warm rain, the sky dark but somehow golden above us, I saw a solitary figure on the far side of the park, a woman with a dark maroon coat and a concrete posture, standing and watching Roo run through the drops before throwing himself for a roll in the wet grass. I tensed and thought of you, filling up with the kind of love that only the fondest of memories can bring. And then almost immediately I knew it wasn't you, couldn't be, because certainly after all this time you wouldn't be here any more. But those memories were pleasant and warm and I thought of all the things I'd tell you if I could, that I still write every day, that that book you read to us––all except the last chapter which you asked me to read because Billy burying Old Dan and Little Ann always made you cry––shaped my life, and that his love for his dogs has carried over into my own life and had a profound impact on me. I wanted you to know that without your presence that year, and your encouragement, I would not be the person I am.

Thank you, Margo Coons, for helping shape the man I have become and the love I have for this dog who calls me his own.

It’s strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man’s mind for so many years.

Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new,

just by something you’ve seen, or something you’ve heard, or the sight of an old familiar face.

(Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows)

"This is the Place to Go Now"

A cloud does not know why it moves in just such a direction and such a speed... It feels an impulsion... this is the place to go now. But the sky knows the reasons and the patterns behind all clouds, and you will know, too, when you lift yourself high enough to see beyond the horizon. (Richard Bach)

Last night, after the afternoon rain that put an early end to the annual Colorado Irish Festival at the park, Duncan and I ventured out in the cool evening for our walk. Duncan was distracted by the smell of all the dropped treats, and I was distracted by him, keeping my eye on him to make sure he didn't get into anything he shouldn't. The air smelled, as it has for weeks, of Linden blossoms, and tasted luscious on the tongue with each breath I took. The grass, still damp, was cold on my open toes, but tickled as I passed through it. Duncan convinced me to tromp with him through the puddles and we were so focused on what was happening at our feet that neither of us noticed what was happening in the skies above until after I got home and sat down at my desk.

We stood in the window for a very long time, watching the sun do what it does best with the clouds, play and caress, tousle and agitate. I could hardly breath as I realized that I am fortunate to have such a view and that such things should never be taken for granted.

Bigger than mountains and cities, fierce and full of rapture, they sat there unseen by so many passing directly beneath them, as unappreciated as the air we breath. And yet we'd be lost and forsaken without them.

I am grateful for this life of mine, as difficult as it can be, and grateful for this good, red dog walking at my side. Duncan and these colors and this sky are enough to sustain me for all the days to come.

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone,

but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars. (Martin Luther)

Down to the River

I have never been much of a churchgoer but I do believe that we take the voice of The Universe with us wherever we go. And so on a hot July morning Duncan and I attended the church of our choice, a beautiful spot down at the river where we were able to celebrate in our own unique fashion.

The Gentlest of Souls

At first there were only four of them, little things that crept out of the shrubs onto the lawn on the far side of the parking lot in full view of Duncan, who lays on the balcony and waits for them. We have watched them grow from small kittens into fair-sized rabbits over the past two months. Dunc could hardly wait to drag me to their warren under the bushes, slowing as we approached, his eyes scanning the long grass for sight of them. Often the only thing we could see was the sunlight shining through their paper-thin ears, painted gold by the afternoon rays. They'd allow us to come remarkably close before darting for cover. They were the only four we saw, but over the last few weeks, as the scent of the Russian Olives has been replaced by the overwhelming perfume of the Lindens and their yellow flowers, that number has increased dramatically. The four became eight and now there is hardly a place we can walk without stumbling upon one, crouched low, impersonating a flat stone in the grass, their ears held low along their backs, their eyes wide but unmoving as they wait for us to pass.

There is a place in The Glen that Duncan has returned to again and again as the summer has progressed and the grass has grown long, a shady spot along the edge of the fence between our earthen bowl and the golf course which runs behind the property. It is a lovely spot, nestled under a tall, wide cottonwood and a young Russian Olive where the loud blades of the mowers cannot reach. A sprig of wild daisies has sprung up and the sun dapples the grass in the afternoon like gold reflecting off water. Each time I throw his ball he carries it down there and pokes about, sometimes lingering for long minutes, sniffing here and there, laying down, one paw held over his ball, the other reaching under the fence.

This afternoon, too hot to play much, I sat on the hillside above him while he ambled to and fro, sniffing here and there, checking his marked territory. His bright green tennis ball lay forgotten in the long grass at the edge of the fence while he dallied, but suddenly he lunged forward at the dark earth, pulled back momentarily and lunged again. I sat up and called to him. He turned, his tail wagging ferociously and started a slow and careful jog toward me, something small and brown held safely in his mouth.

I knew immediately what he had done and leapt up, hurrying barefoot down the hill toward him where he stopped and waited, the baby rabbit hanging limp by the scruff of its neck in his mouth. He smiled in that bashful way of his and laid down, setting the thing before him between his paws as I neared. He licked it once and looked up at me expectantly.

It was small, probably no more than a few weeks old, hardly bigger than one of his long, narrow paws. It hunkered down, ears low and waited. I leashed Roo, patted him on the head and told him what a good job he had done. He licked it again and let me lean in close to inspect it. It waited, breathing heavily. I laid a hand on its warm, moist back and felt its tiny heart racing against my open palm. Dunc watched, his own ears high, his eyes wide, tail still wagging. The thing startled and as I pulled Duncan away, it jerked once then scampered back toward the fence-line, zig-zagging as it went, kicking its hind feet behind it once or twice before vanishing into the shadows. Duncan sat beside me and made no move to follow, obviously pleased with himself and his find.

"Good boy," I told him and slipped him one of the papaya-mango coconut cookies I keep in my pocket."You're a very good boy."

I always insisted he would be kind to a bunny should he ever be lucky enough to catch one. Tonight I  was proven correct. He is truly the gentlest of souls.

Wakeful Dreams

The clouds rolled in along the edges of the horizon tonight in lines, like row after row of white waves lapping against the idyllic, sandy rim of a tranquil lagoon. And Duncan and I, strolling as we were through the Linden-scented night, soon forgot the sky and the setting sun, and found ourselves, instead, looking up as though from a comfortable blue depth, at the mirror place where water and air meet.  A mismatched small fat girl in a pink and blue stripped tank-top bobbed along in a current, the frills of her purple skirt reaching out as she passed, like the arms of some colorful anemone grasping at daylight. A bunny scuttled past, darting under a low hedge like a crab seeking shelter under a mottled, water-kissed rock. The clouds were like great ripples fanning out into wide circles except where their line was broken by the silver flash of one, no two--three!-- silver dolphins, sleek and perfect, their arc puncturing the surface and dragging it after them as they dove behind the mountains, following the sun to the end of another day.

On evenings as quiet and serene as this, with my dog at my side, the sun slipping low and my mind racing with wakeful dreams, I remember the lines of Wallace Stevens and wish that just once I could capture a moment forever by writing something as perfect:

And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

Time Capsule

Duncan and I have come home to be with my family and say farewell to my grandmother.

While it was not the easiest journey, we made it safely and despite the shocking cold in the air--yesterday morning was vaguely October-ish even with all the green in the trees and on the mountains--it was well worth the trouble. I have been in need of a quiet and peaceful place, searching for an escape which I finally found in my mother's garden.

While Duncan plays outside with Zeus, the neighbor's German Shepherd, I wander across the grass and marvel at the place my mother and Kevin have carved out for themselves on the edge of the desolate and sage-riddled desert foothills. It is lush and green here like we don't have even in Colorado. The calendar may say that summer is nearly upon us but in Pocatello Spring seems to only have just begun. The ground is still very soft and dark and moist, and the garden is practically dripping with nectar. The Russian Olives have not yet bloomed even though they are nearly finished in Denver where the Lindens are already beginning to open and waft. As Duncan and Zeus frolic and chase one another I find a nice warm, sun-dappled spot in the shade and listen to the birds, which come in colors I have not seen since I left Illinois: the tanagers with their bright heads, the magpies, purple and cobalt in the sun, the tiny darting hummingbirds, so small and fragile but so fiercely territorial. The air smells clean and delicious and rich enough that I can almost lap at it with my tongue. A buck meandered into the yard and excited Roo, who chased it off before returning to me.

This place is a time capsule where magic can unlock memory. I drive the streets past new buildings and homes, up mountain roads that wind and wend, my muscles somehow remembering where the potholes are, where to slow for dips in the road. There is hardly a place in this town not tied to some precious spot in my heart, and with very little effort I can see the faces I surrounded myself with twenty and thirty years ago. The Universe always listens and sometimes it answers us if we ask the right question. Just yesterday I literally bumped into my friend April and her two sons, the very April I wrote about a week ago but did not expect to see or hear from. There is great magic here indeed.

I have forgotten how perfect this place can be at times and shouldn't have to work so hard to be reminded that no matter how isolated I sometimes feel in Denver, that there is a home here for me, a place where I feel rejuvenated and safe, even if only through photographs and sweet, golden memory. Immaculate and untouchable.

To:

April,

It has been a very long time, my old friend, and although our lives have changed dramatically since last we hugged and shared one of our many perfect and poignant farewells, you have been on my mind a great deal. I think of your sons and marvel that I have never met them, that they probably don't even know I exist. I think of the Pretty Girl with Pink, Round Cheeks, the Handsome Young Man and the Little Red Car. I think of how shocked our younger selves would be to discover we'd not only lived past thirty but that we were nearing forty.

Lately, as the Russian Olives have come back into bloom I have been thinking of the safe, quiet spot in Idaho we called home for so long, and how it was you who taught me that although it wasn't a place we felt comfortable, or a place that offered us the kind of opportunities we dreamed of pursuing in our lives, it was our home and that it would always be there waiting for us, even if only in memory. And most importantly there was a beauty there that should never be overlooked.

Duncan has been leading me to the Russian Olives this week, somehow knowing how important they are to my spirit. Growing up in Idaho I never noticed them, which seems strange because you can hardly throw a stick there without hitting one. In my memory Johnny Creek, that long and winding road up to your parent's home, was practically infested with them. They always looked rather weedish, like something that springs up along the edges of a dusty Idaho stream. Their pungent aroma was so strong at times it was almost sickening and made me recall childhood fishing trips standing on the shore of a lake or the bank of a river mere feet away from where some bottom-feeding sucker lay rotting in the sunshine, it's rainbow scales faded and gray, it's puckered mouth agape, discarded but refusing to be forgotten.

It wasn't until you joined me in the Midwest where the Russian Olives don't grow, that I learned to love them so voraciously. Their absence was heart-wrenching and pained you greatly. Often we journeyed across the vast, bland plains to our mountainous home and as soon as we entered The West you'd hang your head out the window, or take long walks at rest stops and just breathe, your head tilted back, your face turned into the dying blue of the day, your eyes picking out the first twinkling of faraway stars. "That is the smell of home," you'd tell me in a whisper. "Do you remember? My favorite smell in all the world." So I'd stand with you and just breathe until I felt Pocatello racing through my veins, pumping the blood in my heart, igniting images of those mountains and our valley and all the years we'd spent there.

The summer Aran had his truck and let us take the top off, we spent our nights driving through the mountains and down onto the desert of the reservation and each time you caught a whiff of your tree you seemed to change, become someone far wiser, someone who took nothing for granted and understood the deeper meanings and subtler nuances of all creation. Your unruly mane of chestnut hair lifted up, caught on the wind and whipped across your cheek, sometimes catching on your fire-engine red lips, where you'd pull at it with a perfectly manicured fingernail, tucking it safely behind your ear. You never looked more beautiful than on those nights.

So I smell the Russian Olives each day when I walk Roo, and at night when the air cools I open my windows and they waft through my small apartment––the one I never envisioned for myself––inciting dreams of days I'd give anything to revisit. I think of you and how big the hole in my heart has become with your absence. I think of Ken, now living in Milwaukee, so close to you, and how there's almost nothing I wouldn't do to spend an evening with just the two of you, smoking a cigarette, talking and laughing so hard we'd be hurt the next morning.

I don't know if you'll ever read this, but if you do I hope there's nothing you take for granted, that you have been taking care of my Messy Little Man, that there is still something in you that burns as fiercely as that creature I rode shotgun with across the roads of The West, the one who taught me  a love of simple things and a love of home I never understood, the one who introduced me to the wild, weedy trees that pain me with longing and gratitude.

I hope you are still immaculate and untouchable.

To:

David and Greg,

Trees are the earth's endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.  

(Rabindranath Tagore, Fireflies, 1928)

Ah, my flowering friends. The two of you have spent so much time trying to teach me the names of things, the pretty blossoming things which have brought me so much joy. I am  a poor pupil because the names are not as magical to me as their beauty, and despite their poetry, sometimes comic, sometimes tragic, the dreamer in me can't help but I appreciate them all the more for not knowing what to call them--like the pretty girl I passed in the park last year, the one stooped over her guitar, whisper-singing a song to the wind. Or the shapes of the clouds which transfix me as I lay on my back next to Roo on hot summer days. I do not need to know a cumulonimbus from a stratus, and discovering that perhaps my little singer was really called Wanda would somehow break her spell and the serenity of her memory. The color and scent, the way they catch the dew or bend with the breeze, creep up the side of an elm, these are all that matter to me of the flora of this world.

And yet there are a few that I remember. David, you introduced me to Jack-in-the-Pulpit, which is almost obscene but brings a smile to my face when I reflect on it. Greg, your Bachelor Buttons have filled me with untold joy. Perhaps I am richer for knowing the names, but I think I am richer for having been told them by you.

Duncan led me down to the lake today and as we neared my nose picked out that one scent that sustains me throughout the year, the honey, mint butter fragrance of my precious Russian Olives, now finally coming into bloom. I would gladly spend any afternoon with you, but I can imagine none more perfect than walking you across a hillside of Russian Olives, asking you to close your eyes as I cup the reedy branch with its delicate yellow flowers toward your face. I would explain to you that while some people have songs and music, or poems or films that best express the story of their lives, mine would be perfectly encapsulated by the sweet, heady scent of those tiny petals. And because you understand the magic of growing things and because you can hear with your hearts, you would understand and perhaps know me better than most people.

That would be the greatest gift I could offer you, and your silence and reflection at that moment would be the greatest you could give in return.

Crime and Punishment Revisited

It was another grisly morning here. It seems that some time during the night Duncan tried, convicted and punished another of his friends. While Percy the Penguin is still recovering from last month's horrific disemboweling, Duncan has struck again, this time casting judgment on the closest of pals, his treasured and beloved Bah-Bah.

I'm not exactly sure what the crime was, or if one was even committed, or if perhaps this isn't a message meant for me, but Bah-Bah has literally fallen out of favor.

What I do know is this: some time between midnight and 6 AM, Bah-Bah, who was last seen resting beside Duncan on his pillow, fell three stories to the hard concrete below.

I didn't realize Duncan's most trusted friend was even missing. It wasn't until we walked this morning that I discovered the mangled body laying in a heap below our balcony.

Bah-Bah, legless, deaf and helpless, had been dropped thirty feet to a spot just outside our neighbor's garage. Duncan strolled casually by, acting as though he was oblivious to the mangled corpse of his friend, who has been with him nightly for the past two years. Duncan, who remembers every place he's ever seen a squirrel. Duncan, who can locate a golf ball under a foot of snow. Duncan, who hunts out lilacs and sunflowers from miles away and can spot a bunny in the thickest of shrubs or concealed deep in the tallest grass.

Bah-Bah, the truest and most loyal of buddies, was found on his side, his eyes open, the stitched-on smile still on his face. I gasped and rushed to his side. Thankfully––despite the tremendous wound in his side––he was still alive. I scooped him up and turned to Roo, who had taken a sudden very intense interest in a gum wrapper. We climbed the stairs and delivered Bah-Bah to the ICU with Percy before returning outside for our walk. Dunc kept a low profile, ambling quietly beside me, head down, as though nothing had happened.

The events of last night have rocked our apartment. Despite my assurances Buddy and Beaker, Baby and the Blue Buddha are terrified that they're next on the hit list.

I think it's time to pull in some outside help.

Lilacs and Forgiveness

I was not a good papa tonight. Not only did Pip spend the day locked in the bedroom closet, where he'd wandered this morning while my back was turned, curling up in a tight little ball on the clean linens, but I was late getting home as well. I'd planned to leave work a few minutes early but once outside I spotted a small lilac bush and insisted on crawling through the shrubs to pick off a small sprig of fragrant purple flowers. I realized I hadn't had an opportunity to enjoy them this Spring and had just been lamenting the fact that I'd probably missed my chance for another year. When I saw them I couldn't resist and once I had them in my hand I held them close to my face, breathing in the scent which reminds me of my childhood and my grandmother. Driving home I felt nostalgic and eventually found myself at my previous job visiting for a long time with old colleagues.

It was nearly eight o'clock before I got home, long overdue. Dunc was sitting on the bed in the window, wiggling and yelping as though he thought I'd abandoned him forever. I carried my things up the stairs, my tiny clutch of lilac pinched in my curled fist. No sooner had I opened the door than Duncan jumped up on me, knocking the flowers to floor where he tromped joyously all over them, smashing them and scattering the tiny petals across the tile and carpet. I scooped them up and held them to my face one last time, thinking of Grandma and the smell of her yard all those years ago.

I leashed up Roo and took him outside. He pulled me downstairs and tended to business almost immediately. It was a long time before he was ready and when he was he knew where to go. We sidestepped the park and ventured down into Leawood. A warm wind came up, churning the leaves in the trees and waving across the long grass. Duncan kept pausing and turning his face into it, closing his eyes a moment in rapturous glee. Then he'd stare at the sky and the miles-tall cumulonimbus cloud which looked like the curled hand of an old woman, soft and white, wrinkled and cottony. Time and time again he did this, pausing to watch the cloud, which slowly unfurled, the fist relaxing, the fingers straightening and the palm opening to the fading gold of the sun like the secret insides of a flower. Ignoring the places he knows the bunnies congregate he pulled me down the street as though leading me in a specific direction. When we finally turned the corner across from the elementary school he stopped in front of a tall copse of white and purple lilacs, a mountain of them, all still new and wonderfully fragrant. He sat, turned his face skyward and seemed to smile at the cloud which had flattened out, one long finger pointing at us, to the place he'd led me where the lilacs still bloomed.

He sat quietly at my feet while I gathered a small handful, carefully plucking each and holding them to my nose, breathing in the memory of years passed. I don't know how long I stood there, eyes closed. The sun had drifted below the horizon and the clouds in the north and west had smeared across the sky, sparking with distant lightning. When he knew I was ready Duncan stood, stretched and led me back home, waiting patiently for dinner while I filled a small glass with water in which to place my treasure.

He's sitting at my feet now, licking my ankles and occasionally glancing up at the flowers resting next to me on the end table.

Pippin won't have anything to do with me, of course, and is no doubt planning the most opportune moment to retch on my pillow. It would be a bad thing but the lilacs somehow make it better before it's even happened.

Sunrise to Sunset

After nearly two weeks of rain and snow and impossibly Seattle-esque weather, weeks of Duncan moping in the window or pouting at my feet, whining to be taken out to chase the wet little mounds of baby bunnies, this day dawned perfectly, with a sunrise of sherbet oranges and faded blueberry blues.

I awoke shortly before six and everyone––the cats cuddled around me, Duncan at the foot of the bed wrapped in the blanket mom made him for Christmas, and me, especially––was surprised when I didn't roll back over, pull the pillow over my head and sleep for another hour or two. I climbed out of bed, got dressed and had served everyone breakfast before the rest of them joined me. I was standing at the door with the leash waiting for Roo to amble down the hall long before he figured out that I was serious about walking. He was slow and stretchy, pausing for some morning Downward Dog yoga twice before he was ready, and waited patiently for me to attach his leash, a rarity as he usually chirps and dances impatiently around me.

The morning was bright and rather than meander around our complex, as we usually do, we took our time crossing the street to venture into the park, which was entirely ours at that hour. None of the joggers or soccer hoards were out so I took him off leash and let him amble beside me. He was still sleepy and didn't dart ahead but stayed at my side despite my encouragement to run far and wide while he could. The park was lovely in its silence, welcoming and barely awake. The week's rain and snow and terrible winds had shaken the blossoms from the trees and the tiny white petals were scattered across the ground like a dusting of snow. Duncan finally woke up and galloped through them, rolling in them and collecting them in his fur. Then he'd jump up again, shake them free and run away again, pausing every now and then to wait for me, sighing as I took my time, kicking the dew from the blades of grass as I passed.

Only three hours later, after I'd finished the laundry and done the grocery shopping we went out again, walking the length of the property, stopping to let the strolling families, fresh from their breakfasts, pet him, the small children smiling wide as they patted his back, repeating, "Gog" while their parents said, "Yes, nice dog." Duncan didn't mind but stood patiently, his tongue, big and pink and fat on the end, lolling out of his mouth.

At three, after a brief visit from Ken, we ventured back to the park to throw the ball. The families had gathered again, this time for barbecues and Frisbee tosses. I settled down in the grass and watched an ant crawl up the length of my leg, tumbling from hair to hair, before finally reaching my shorts and then the vast white expanse of my t-shirt. Duncan rolled back and forth, kicking his legs up as though sprinting across the sky, where a white crab cloud morphed into a dancing rotisserie chicken, the claws changing slowly into funny little naked wings.

An hour later we ventured down to the pool to sit with Monica and Jimmy and Brady, who'd been there for hours, sunning themselves and taking dips in the surprisingly warm water. I'd made myself a drink, a vodka with blueberry pomegranate juice, and lounged on the deck chairs while Duncan and Roxie, Brady's dog, chased a tennis ball. Monica tossed the ball in the pool, which was too much for Roxie, who talks a tough talk but can't manage to walk it, but Duncan, with only a little coaxing, soon found himself paddling back and forth after it. He had trouble navigating the stairs but once he managed to figure them out he was fine. His first swim of the season. Soon we'll be spending our weekends at Chatfield splashing in the river.

After a short nap we ventured out at the moment when the sun had finally slipped below the horizon. The sky had softened and changed from faded blueberry to washed denim, and the moon, with bright Venus sitting just below her at four o'clock, was brilliant before us. The day had cooled and the heavy smells of evening were wafting all around us: cut grass, burgers and chicken on the grill, fabric softener blowing from the drier vents. Roo, finally dry, if not a bit fluffier than usual, trotted beside me, sniffing the edges of the low shrubs and peering deep within them for a sight of the bunnies, which only a few weeks ago were smaller than and nearly as trusting as kittens.

We will both sleep well tonight, me especially because I know this was a day for Duncan, who has been patiently waiting for the clouds to pass and the sun to shine bright in his face.

Water In All Its Forms

We have taken our last walk of the night, thankfully just as the storm turned, rain changing to snow. Now we sit on the patio, three stories above the greened grass and the puddling parking lot, the clouded sky an orange  blanket above us broken only by the occasional flash of wide, arcing lightning leftover from the earlier storm. Olive and Duncan, perched at my feet, startled at the last bright spark and the rumble from above and scurried inside where the candles flicker and Philip Glass plays on a loop on the stereo. Strangely the sprinkler system is running, hissing below, but not loud enough to drown out the soft flutter of the snow on the crisp, frozen grass, or the gentle dropplings of the rain. The night is loud with the sound of water in all its forms, frozen and running, steaming from under the newly parked cars.

Soon it will be time for bed. I'll lay awake long into the night, listening to the rain and snow storms and humming softly to the warm, furry bodies curled around me, wondering what color the world will be in the morning when the light falls on my eyes and they flutter open.

Springtime in The Rockies.

Mom: An Olive Interlude

I have always been "Papa" to the chilluns, except when I first moved in with Ken and I was "Uncle Curt" to Nikki and Ashley.

There was a brief time, though, when Ken and I played the role of "Mom" to Olive and her five siblings. Ken had been working at a vet clinic and one of their patients went into labor. She'd been a cat living on the street outside a hotel in LA who'd been rescued by a concerned woman who'd been there on a business trip. The poor thing was brought back to Denver where her vets learned that not only was she pregnant but that she was recovering from a shattered pelvis, which meant a natural birth was out of the question. She went into labor a week early and unfortunately there was no time to do the blood work. I was at home that afternoon when Ken called and urged me to run to PetSmart to buy a case of formula for newborn kittens. He didn't have time to explain and the urgency in his voice told me I needed to be quick.

When I arrived at the clinic with the formula I learned the sad story. The rescued mother hadn't survived the cesarean and was only being kept alive by a ventilator. They'd attempted to get her six kittens to suckle so that they could get those first, very important nutrients from their mother, but none of them would. I sat with their mother while the staff cleaned up the newborns and checked that each of them was healthy. In her last moments, after they removed her from the ventilator, her eyes fixed and wide, I promised her that her kittens would be safe and she need not worry about them, that they would be loved and cared for.

The next few weeks were difficult ones. Ken volunteered us to take the kittens home nightly and care for them as their mother would have. That meant keeping them warm in a small box, feeding them every two hours, inducing them to go to the bathroom and cleaning up after them. We tended to those kittens like no other animal companion I've ever had, getting up with them three and four times a night, feeding them warm milk, simulating their mother's tongue and wiping their bottoms with a moist cotton ball, holding them and checking on them constantly. It was hard work but well worth it and we got to call each other "Mom" for weeks, and when we were done we got to pick which one got to join our family and stay with us forever.

Where our other children had been perfect angels, Olive was a nightmare, a mean and bitey little demon who preferred Ken to me. She hated me, refusing to cuddle, biting me all night long and hissing whenever I came near either her or Ken. She was the only pet I ever had that I actually considered giving up for adoption, but Ken prevailed and we kept her. It took several years but she finally calmed down and is now the most talkative and friendly one of the bunch. When Ken and I separated last year it seemed only natural that Winnie, Pip and Duncan would come with me, but we agonized over our poor, little orphan, eventually deciding she'd fare better with the others so she stayed with me. But whenever Ken comes over she runs out to greet him, jumps up on his lap and gives him all the love she's saved up for him since their last visit. She may live with me, but she's still very much his girl and he is still her Mom and Dad.

She's become very protective of me, though, sleeping on the pillow above my head with one paw on my ear, greeting me at the door with Duncan when I arrive home each night, and standing guard while I shower in the morning. She has long since shed her devilish ways and is my angel, the one companion I have who can call me "Mom."

Where the Wild Things Aren't

Some things are worth waiting for, and while the circumstances are not the best, the outcome––for Duncan and me and all the other dogs here at Raccoon Creek––has been worth the wait.

This morning I stood on my balcony, thirty-seven steps above the parking lot, and watched Pete and his wife pack the last of their belongings into a U-Haul, leash up Gil, take one last look around and then drive away from here forever. After a year of avoiding the little clearing among the buildings where the bunnies play, the place I dubbed The Lair after that night Pete stood idly by while his demon German Wire-Haired Pointer attacked Duncan, it is finally safe to venture back among the slowly budding Linden trees and low shrubs where the little birds hop and chirp.

There has been much talk of Pete and Gil among the residents here the past year. Despite Pete's initial assurance that Gil was friendly, the evidence was firmly against him. Nearly everyone I spoke with loathed the dog and had their own horrific encounters with them to share. Management had been made aware of them numerous times since my official report last July. Even Chelsea, owner of Hero's Pets, who lives in the building directly across from mine, who loves dogs and typically holds their companions responsible for their behavior, insisted there was something wrong with "that dog."

I'd heard a rumor a few weeks ago that they were moving but refused to believe it until I'd actually seen them depart. The circumstances of their departure, however, are quite sad. I'd noticed Pete's gray Ford Ranger sitting in the parking lot since January, often not moving for weeks at a time. I saw his wife walking Gil but for a long time Pete was nowhere to be found. The neighbor who told me they were leaving lives directly below them and confessed that Pete, no more than thirty years old, had suffered a stroke shortly after Christmas, and while he had survived and recovered, he was no longer able to drive. He'd been fortunate and was able to return to work but his wife had to drive him. Working on opposite sides of the city the daily commute had finally taken its toll and they'd decided to move closer to Pete's job to reduce the burden on her.

While I am sad to hear of Pete's health I cannot help but rejoice at their departure. I'd often stood outside in the early evenings watching them play off-leash with him and hoped they'd leave when their lease was up, I just didn't wish it to be under these circumstances.

I wish them well and hope they were able to get a nice big fenced-in yard where Gil can run, far away from other dogs which he is so obviously incapable of interacting with.

In the meantime, Duncan and I have a lot of new bunnies with whom to acquaint ourselves. And The Lair needs a new name for the monsters and wild things have finally taken their leave.

Pay It Forward

Today is Pay it Forward Day. If you're unfamiliar with the concept what that means is that you go out into the world and do three random good deeds for perfect strangers while encouraging them to do the same as "payment" for your generosity. Not only does it benefit the person receiving your good will, it also fosters a stronger sense of community and connectedness. The deeds can be anything, large or small. The first time I received a Pay it Forward gift was at a toll booth in Chicago when I was informed that the person in the car in front of me had paid my toll. I was so touched that from that point on I always paid for the car behind me. That one simple gesture spawned years of gratitude returned to others.

Here are the three things I did today:

First, through Facebook I learned about a friend of a friend, a good woman who through no fault of her own (if we're looking to blame anyone we can blame the health care industry!) is on the verge of losing the home she has lived in for twenty years. The single mother of a nine year old son, she has struggled to stay ahead, but because of a car accident her insurance company refused to cover, has fallen behind. Having no other place to turn she used Facebook as a resource, asking if 100 people could donate $45 to help her stop foreclosure on her home. You can read more about her story here. Even though I struggle myself I decided that even I could spare the money and support her cause. I urge each of you to do the same. You don't have to donate $45, but any amount would be greatly appreciated.

Second, I stopped by Hero's Pets, my home away from home, and told Kathy, Chelsea's mother, that I wanted to buy the next person in line's food, explaining that she needed to tell them that they were the recipient of a Pay It Forward gift. Not long thereafter a woman who's dog was ill approached the counter with three cans of a special diet formula and a bottle of tummy tamer. Kathy explained that she owed nothing and had only to do three good deeds for other people in payment. The woman had no idea I was responsible but she was incredibly grateful and couldn't stop thanking Kathy for the gift, promising to play her part in the process.

Third, while at the park with Duncan, we stopped by Starbucks where I purchased a gift card for $10. When the clerk handed it back to me I told him to keep it and give it to the next person in line, telling them that they needed to do something kind for three other people. As I explained it to him, his face lit up and I could see his mind racing. I didn't buy a drink but simply left the store and walked Duncan down to the place where the bunnies roost and watched his little leg quiver with anticipation at the sight of them.

These were simple things and incredibly easy to do. And after I completed each I walked away feeling proud of myself and happy to live in a world where such concepts exist. A free latte does not change anyone's life, but it can change how people look at each other and, hopefully, bring about a change that even I cannot imagine.

You can play Pay it Forward any day, not just April 29th. If you've come to this blog the day or week or month after, it's not too late to take part in the movement. What change can your small gesture bring about? Tell me what will you do when you're done reading?

Crime and Punishment

Despite the fact that nearly all of them have had their limbs removed, and most lack faces, Duncan is quite gentle with his toys. I keep a drawer full of them, a sort of asylum for friends loved nearly to death, and switch them out every few weeks so that he doesn't get bored and restless. But when I wait too long he wastes no time in letting me know that the time has come to mix things up.

Percy, the first of his friends whose name did not start with a "B," joined our clan a few months back and quickly became a favorite. A terrycloth penguin with a bright yellow beak, eyelid-soft wings and two awkward little feet, Percy went wherever Roo went, and whenever he wasn't being tenderly carried back and forth across the apartment in Duncan's mouth, he was tucked protectively under a paw where he received a nearly constant bath. And because he was vaguely football-shaped I enjoyed him because he could be thrown with a nice spin, black and white whirling through the air hypnotically. Each night Dunc took him to bed, pulling his blanket over him to keep him safe and warm and each morning it became more and more difficult to take Percy away and put him up until I returned from work.

I don't know why exactly he fell out of favor but this evening after our walk, while I tended first to Facebook, then to dinner and a small glass of wine, Duncan made it perfectly clear that Percy had somehow offended and needed to be relocated into the witness protection program, replaced by Leon, the plush fuzzy red bone our friend Nik sent to us. I discovered the hapless penguin dismembered on the floor not far from the water dish, his wings and flappy feet forcibly removed from his body and missing entirely, his belly torn open, stuffing spilling out onto the carpet like cottage cheese. I quickly re-stuffed him and placed him on a high shelf where he will be safe until I can sew him up and tuck him into the asylum for a few months, at least until Dunc has forgiven him his crimes.

Until then he has Bah-Bah, his legless lamb, and Leon to see him through. Here's hoping no further infractions have been committed and Duncan won't be preoccupied with punishing the conspirators.

Moon and Glass

The moon is a crescent and the stars are hardly visible behind the light foggy clouds which have hovered over us all day. The night is low and our walk was a quiet one. For such a cold day the air was surprisingly warm and smelled sweet, like the new white flowers appearing in thick, popcorn clumps on the trees.

Duncan was restless but I was aimless, meandering wherever he led, alternately watching my feet strike the pavement or looking up at the sky for a quick glimpse of our fickle moon, pointed on both ends and as sharp as a cartoon smile.

I have been feeling lonely and have noticed I have been distancing myself from my friends, content instead to come home and lay on the bed with the cats curled around me while Duncan gnaws on a tennis ball at my feet. I've been making dinner late and falling asleep on the couch, the windows and patio door forgotten and left open, waking only after I was so cold I had no choice but to get up and crawl under the covers in bed for the last hour of the night. Philip Glass' "Mad Rush" has been on a nearly constant loop, the piano notes rising and falling, the repetition as soothing as balm. I have not been sad, just living alone and making one long note of it.

And so tonight, on our last walk, while Duncan watched for rabbits, I watched for the moon, and when she finally peeked out, along with a single star, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to be guided by Roo, the rhythm of our steps a soft voice saying, "This way, this way, this way." I made a wish, softly, under my breath so that not even Duncan heard it. But the smiling moon must have and a moment later there was a whoosh above our heads as an enormous owl swept down low, perhaps only fifteen feet above us, the soft white of its chest illuminated and clear, each feather a thing of crystalline beauty. It alighted at the top of a pine like a dark Christmas star and swiveled its head all the way around to watch us and perhaps a mouse scuttling through the newly green grass.

A moment later my eye caught the shape of something else, something moving across the low night sky toward us, something slow and dark, round and glimmering at its edge, a rain cloud bearing a silver lining. It danced around a building, slowed and hovered above us for just a moment before finally sinking downward, landing soundless and bounceless at my feet. I bent forward and picked up a silver foil balloon with the words "Happy birthday" written across its shimmering surface.

The moon rarely sends us messages when wished upon and when it does we should not ask questions Today is not my birthday but I think I know what it means. And it makes Philip Glass sound less lonely.

Gobi

The morning after our snowfall last week there was not a car or road or building in Denver that was not covered in a thick rain-dappled red dust. Although it has dried my windows still bear the marks, as though someone doused us with cocoa powder.

It seems that while we slept the clouds moved in and opened up, spilling a muddy rain down upon the Front Range. After the temperatures dropped the snow began to fall and only after it melted did we see what the rain had delivered all the way from Asia. A windstorm in Mongolia had pulled sand from the Gobi desert high into the atmosphere, carrying it across the Pacific, over the western United States to the Rocky Mountains, were it finally was released.

Duncan and I have walked many miles in the days since, and while we have not left the city I cannot help but marvel that in a strange way our path has taken us across the sands of the Gobi. We have breathed it in and carried it with us up our three flights of stairs, tracking it across the tile in the doorway, all without trying very hard at all. But that sand has traveled high and far to find us and douse us like pixie dust. Whose footsteps were imprinted upon before ours? How long did it blow across Asia before settling here and what has it seen on its strange pilgrimage?

How odd to be reminded once again, in such a bizarre way, that it's not the destination but the journey that matters most.

A Change in the Weather

It's never easy to tell here in The Rockies––and I certainly don't want to jump the gun––but I think Spring may be dipping its toes in the DenverLand pool. It's never easy to tell as March and April are typically our snowiest months, and the flowers don't really bloom until mid to late May. Several years ago on my birthday (February 1st), Mom and Kevin came down from Idaho to visit. We awoke to a spectacular morning and spent the day at the zoo with the temperatures firmly resting in the low 80s. The next morning, though, we had a terrific blizzard. and they had to leave a day earlier than planned. It's par for the course here and while we relish our occasional warm winter blessings, we also view Spring with a cautious and suspicious eye. After all, Colorado is where we golf in January and ski until June.

For instance, even though Tuesday night was warm with a luscious breeze drifting through the windows, we awoke Wednesday morning to four inches of snow. Duncan was overjoyed, rolling and playing in the stuff while I scraped the windows and pushed heavy pounds of it off my car. The skies were low and white and the snow was thick and blinding. Walking through it was bitter and wet and we were both soaked within minutes. I left for work and spent the day in my windowless office dreading the long drive home, but by the time I stepped outside at 5 PM, the sun was out, the snow was completely gone and three little dandelions had sprung up along the edge of the sidewalk. While the mountains were still white, the skies were smooth and blue and the air smelled sweet and rich.

Duncan was waiting for me in the window, his tail wagging, a wide grin spread across his face. When we ventured outside he pranced and danced and pulled me across the greening grass to each of the trees, where small buds were beginning to appear. He was proud, as though he'd somehow arranged it himself as a gift for me. So we went to the park, where the ground was dry but still springy and soft and returned Roo's tennis ball with a satisfying and solid bounce. The lake, which had been cloudy and turbulent only that morning was smooth and clear and covered with a battalion of scrawny, squawking gulls and fat pelicans so big they looked like paddle boats. The little birds had invaded the trees and were content darting from green bud to green bud, chirping with each hop. It was miraculous and exactly what my spirit needed after a winter that began three weeks before Halloween. We grilled tilapia outside and slept with the windows open, the cool, candied air greeting us in the morning when we woke.

I am not convinced but remain hopeful.