At Last

My year has been a difficult one, from that morning we were hit by the car to the evening five nights later when I learned my grandfather had passed away. Each time I sat at the computer to write I found only anger and sadness dancing from my fingertips and I tried to remember what my grandmother often told me, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

So I stayed away, discontent with my walks with Duncan, dwelling not on the peace the rhythm of our footfalls brought, but on the cold and isolation of winter, the lonely bitterness of the wind against my face, the ache in my back and chest. I wanted only to rush through those walks and return home to make a quick dinner and fall asleep before I could think more about the unhappy hand I'd been dealt in 2011.

And then this morning I awoke to discover I had no blog. It was gone. Completely and utterly. The words, "This blog has been removed" sat on my screen like roadkill on the street, unmoving and tragic, heavy and frightening both to look at and to look away from. Although I had ignored this outpost on the internet I had never been able to ignore the possibility and promise of returning there when the time was right. This morning that, too, seemed to have been taken from me.

Each walk with Duncan is done with wide eyes, open ears, my skin prickling with the sensations of weather and the deep concentration of remaining open and unfocused with every step we take. But this morning after we ambled down the hall together and I prepared his breakfast, my heart was broken with the thought that all those walks had somehow been lost and the thought of starting anew was overwhelming and more than I could consider. Google had closed my account, erased my email and negated four years of travel with my best friend. Chalk up another bitter win for 2011.

It was only at the end of the day when the blog had magically been restored and an immense sense of relief settled over me that I knew tonight was the night I'd come back, that Duncan would lead me to the comfort I've been seeking but ignoring.

The sky on the drive home was incredible, a shade of washed-out forgotten blue with the fading streaks of clouds so golden they burned white, twisting and dissipating above the mountains. I could not navigate the streets fast enough or find my way home quick enough. The butterflies fluttered in my belly and I could almost feel the familiar weight of Dunc's leash in my hand and the gentle tug of him guiding me through the night. I watched the fading contrails above the mountains change slowly from single, humble scratched lines into billowing plumes that elongated and thinned, smudged and reformed into new shapes entirely. One, bright with pink and orange-dazzled edges, twisted itself into a question mark that hung miles large and I felt all those questions I've been grappling with these past weeks bubble up to dance on and confuse my surface. It stayed there long after I got home, turning, eventually into a child's drawing of a wave, jagged and high-peaked with deep valleys and no place to rest. It stayed there long after the blue of the sky forgot how to be blue and turned to something else, after I changed into a pair of jeans and the soft green and gray short-sleeved flannel shirt of Grandpa's that mom gave me, donned my new walking shoes and let Duncan lead me down the stairs, across the street and to the tall hill above the lake where we could watch the last of the light leave the sky.

And while we sat there on the cement bench, Duncan somehow content to rest his shoulder against my leg while the warm breeze danced in the long hair around his ears, that single treacherous wave of a cloud flattened out into the nearly straight line of a calm and serene sea with Jupiter glowing just below it but still above the black line of the mountains. We sat a long time in the joyous and deserved warmth of this February evening, content for the first time in weeks and happy to have something good to say at last, and a place in which to say it.

Someone Else's Valentine

It was one of the most beautiful nights I have seen. The sun had set and the sky had faded from red and orange into a bleached bone color right on the horizon before turning that deep shade of Colorado indigo I love so much. The stars began to salt the night and the clouds were high and distant, barely covering the moon. Two clouds, as enormous as continents divided by a dark twinkling ocean, the reflection of Orion glimmering on the gently rolling surface. of the sea of vast space, floated lazily overhead. They were watercolor white and looked as though a hand bigger than I can imagine had smudged their solid edges, whisping into smears that could have been floating ice or tall whitecaps. The very last of the night's pink frosted their peaks and a faint tint of gold rolled in their valleys.

I whistled, as I often do on our walks through the park, and sometimes, when it's just Duncan and me, I'll even sing into the night sky, each note falling in time with a nearly silent footstep, catching in the bare branches of the elms and aspens above us, rattling their leaves before falling to earth to slide across the surface of last week's snow, now barely more than thick soup on the drowned lawns.

Not far ahead of us a couple, young, probably still in high school, walked slowly, their hands entwined, their shoulders and hips bumping softly against one another in that way that couples have. They sat at one of the benches and leaned into one another, sneaking kisses and whispering. Duncan plodded up to them, his feet making delicate squishing noises in the slush as he approached to sniff their knees and hands, looking for a treat.

"He's friendly," I told them. "Sorry about that."

"No worries," the boy said while his girl patted Roo's head and scratched behind his ears.

I pulled Dunc away and continued down the walk, turning my face into the bashful moon before picking up my whistle where I'd left off.

I'd barely found the notes when the boy jogged up to me and asked, "What's that song you're whistling?"

"'I'll Be Seeing You,'" I told him. "The Carmen McRae version." As if he knew who she was or even that there were different versions of the song, one of my favorites.

"It's nice," he said and then fell silent, as though thinking of something but was afraid to ask.

"Would you whistle it for us?" he asked, not quite looking at me, his big feet kicking awkwardly in the snow at the edge of the sidewalk. "If you don't mind..." And then added, as if I didn't know, "It's Valentine's Day and all."

I smiled and nodded. He ran back to the bench, pulled his girl to her feet and led her back to where I stood under a glowing orange lamp. Duncan rolled in the snow on the hillside, his legs dancing on the sky.

The boy whispered to her and took her in his arms even though she giggled and tried to pull away. He whispered to her again and she fell still. He nodded at me over her shoulder and as I began to whistle, he rested his face in the warm place between her shoulder and neck and  they began to dance. She giggled again but he held her close and soon the two of them were lost in the night, moving slowly, the warmth of their bodies pressed together fending off the cool breeze which picked up and slid down the hill toward us. Duncan looked up at them, ran in circles around them and the continents above moved closer together, their edges colliding until they, too, were one, and Orion looked away while the moon smiled down on them and my whistled notes carried them from this winter night in the park to a place where this memory will live forever.

Track

I am tired of winter and it seems ours here in Colorado has only just begun. There is little I find enjoyable about it except watching Duncan's immense pleasure running through the snow, huffing his way through the morning's new drifts, oblivious to the cold on his naked feet or the powder that accumulates and balls up in the long hair of his chest and belly. Each morning and evening he runs far ahead of me, scattering the squirrels and little birds, driving a cloud of white billowy breath and snow before him. There is no limit to his love of all seasons, but it seems winter is his favorite. Many times I find myself alone on the trail we have carved in the snow along the The Run, looking ahead for a flash of red among the snow-covered shrubs or behind the ice-encrusted tree trunks. But then I look down and see his tracks running alongside mine, perfect footprints, a perfect accompaniment to my own and I am reminded that he is never far away.

Duncan is never far from me. We are bound together like the stars are bound to the night and although he may slip from my view momentarily he is quick to return to my side, his nose nudging against my gloved hand, the soft sniff warm against the bare skin at my wrist, the sound of his feet breaking the snow beside my own, leading me out into the world and then back home again where we are safe and warm and can rest.

Sucker

Grandma gave Duncan an extra special treat today, which he relished with patience and serenity.

For a bit. And then he got greedy.

A New Feather

It has been a difficult week and tomorrow Duncan and I will climb into the car  once again and make an unexpected return to Idaho. I have spent much of the day packing and cleaning, getting organized, running errands and grieving.

Last night my grandfather passed away, the last of my four grandparents, and my heart has been breaking ever since. Duncan was with me, on a walk through the dark and quiet when the call came. Almost immediately my good, red dog was at my side, standing so that his head stood even with my hand, gently resting his weight against my leg in reassurance, a reminder that he was there for me. The sky was brilliant and clear and vast in a way it hasn't been as of late, and as my mother and I cried softly and tried to be brave, I tilted my head back, turning my face into the darkness above. "Look for that new bright star," Mom told me. And so I spent much of last night doing exactly that, standing with Dunc in the dark watching the heavens, wondering what a world without grandparents would feel like.

My grandfather was an amazing man and I wish I could have introduced each of you to him. Perhaps, in a way, I did when I wrote about him several years ago. He would've made you laugh even if you didn't want to. And so tomorrow as Dunc and I drive the six-hundred miles back home, I'll be thinking of all those stories and laughing even when it seems so hard, smiling against the bland miles of Wyoming, through the winding snow-covered hills of southeast Idaho until I arrive home and can receive the hugs I've been sorely missing these past few days.

But we won't be alone. Grandma and Grandpa will be with us. Perhaps all four of my grandparents will be there, magic feathers, strong and light and able to carry us across the distance to the home they built on the edge of the Idaho desert, to the family they loved so very much.

A Quiet Place to Rest

The moon––hanging over my shoulder as it does at this time of the month, not quite fully round but close, bold and coy all at once––was the color of the streets lamps in the park, pale and transparent, sifting through the high wisps of clouds like a dirty light in a dark aquarium. Duncan was as oblivious to her presence as he was to the goose droppings that littered the sidewalk, and plodded along ahead of me, his ears raised into the dark of night around us, his nose low, skittering over the place where the cement and grass met.

It was a long day and as tired as I was, I knew that the short winter walks were beginning to take their toll on Roo. We stay away from the park on winter nights because I can't see to steer us around the green goose tootsie-rolls. Instead we've been spending our time down at The Glen or exploring the sidewalks that line the perimeter of the apartment complex. It's not ideal, but it's the only option I have in the cold and dark. Tonight, though, exhausted and grumpy, I figured the best thing for both of us was a long walk through the park, down around the northern edge of the lake, still frozen despite our warm January weather, and back up past the golf course toward home.

It is difficult sometimes, after a long commute and a stressful day, to put the needs of Duncan ahead of my own. My mind was screaming to stop for a burrito rather than cook the Tilapia waiting at home for me. I kept imagining a glass of wine, which I rarely drink, and a long hot bath, the steam rising up around my face in comfortably suffocating clouds. I wanted nothing more than to read a chapter or two in a book and climb into bed, but Duncan needed a long walk more than I needed an early night, and I knew that afterward I would feel better as well. I'd be ashamed to admit how often I resist, but every time I relent he reminds me that a good walk, a quiet one at a slow pace, is always the best medicine and that more often than not there's something waiting out there in the world for us, something The Universe has put in our path for exactly that reason, something waiting to be discovered.

And so we walked. The lake water was stiff and unmoving, the light from the shops that ring its shores trapped on its frozen surface, preserved as though burnt in amber. The air was nearly sweet and clear as the traffic began to die down and in places, where the clouds had cleared, the red and green lights of planes coming in from over the Rockies blinked against the darkness of all those miles of space between them and the ground.

Duncan pulled me around the baseball diamonds. My pace had begun to slow but he led me steadily along, occasionally looking over his shoulder at me, his eyebrows bunched up in that familiar way of his when he wants to take me somewhere and asks only that I trust him. So I followed, too tired even to whistle. When we'd rounded the diamonds and came back along the path past the picnic pavilions, he suddenly stopped, looked at me once more, and then guided me through a ring of scattered picnic benches to a place where someone had brought a single recliner, a La-Z Boy, golden under the park lamps, its surface smooth and clean, one arm slightly loose but in good condition. He led me to it, his tail wagging softly. My first instinct was to stay as far away from it possible, but I trust Dunc, and so we wiped the once-leaves from its mottled velour surface and sat for a bit. He climbed up on my lap, placed his head on my arm and looked up at me. We were warm there, watching the traffic thin out on Pierce, the moon bright and bold before us but still not quite fully round, the stars emerging from behind the clouds, all the world perfect as only a dog can show us it can be.

A Picture of His Papa

When I came home tonight, after a long drive in the cold and ice, Duncan was curled up on the couch as he often is, his chin supported on the arm-rest so that he can look out the patio doors at the world below. I've seen him there more times than I could count, but what made me smile and broke my heart all at once was what he'd brought with him.

More often than not his toys are scattered on the floor around him, Bash, the blue hammerhead laying under the coffee table, dropped when Duncan dozed, a fuzzy green tennis ball not far away. Sometimes one or two will be resting near his head or propped on his hip in the same manner that Duncan cuddles against me when I lay on the couch. None of his toys were near him tonight, though. Instead, he'd pulled my sweater from the doorknob where I'd lazily hung it last night, carried it down the hall into the living room, placed it on the couch and laid on top of it, using it as a sort of pillow while he slept away the afternoon waiting for me to come home.

I have several pictures of him on my desk at work so that every time I look up I can see him grinning back at me, but he laid on my sweater all day, breathing me in and perhaps dreaming about the moment I arrived home to take him out to play in the snow. Sometimes the evidence of his love for me is overwhelming and I am reminded again to count my blessings.

A Good Hunter

On Saturday, when the snow and plunging temperatures were still only a rumor, something whispered between people passing on the sidewalks behind their dogs, when only the lightest dusting still clung to the northward sides of the buildings, the rabbits and squirrels were still plentiful and playful. Duncan had learned all the treacherous spots in The Run––those places in the snow where my footprints had packed tightly and frozen into ice––and so gave little thought to where his feet fell as he jogged ahead of me on the gently sloping ground, hardly seeming to touch it at all, gliding above it somehow, a low kite riding the lazy tide of air hovering just above the yellowed grass which still protruded through a thin layer of crisp snow. As I do every winter, I plodded behind, my booted feet heavy, the air evading the gravity of my lungs, the morning cold like a set of fists pushing against my progress. But not Roo. He bound ahead and straight into the thicket of shrubs, scattering the little birds and rustling the squirrels out of their earthbound hiding places and up into the trees, his delight wide and ample on his face. Unlike every fisherman or hunter I have known, he cares little for quantity or size but is content in the doing. He was just as happy Saturday with the five squirrels he treed as he was on Friday with the thirteen he chased into the branches above his head. And as we all know, his happiness does wonders for my own.

Playing Dead

When told Duncan can sit with the best of them. He doesn't even need my voice; a closed fist held in front of me is enough to drop him where he stands. He can stay moderately well, unless he sees a pretty girl or Brady (there is no correlation, believe me). He can shake, although he always does so with his right paw. He can give you a high five, and ten, even, if he has change and you ask nicely. Sometimes he'll deign to lay down when asked but only when he knows you've got a treat or when the ground is wet and he knows a soggy belly will require a good rub down when we return home. He's very good at bowing when you bow at him and seems to expect the same of me when he bows at me first thing in the morning. And when asked he's more than happy to tell you he loves you. He's even taken to saying the blessing before meals. He is quite smart and learns very quickly.

The one thing he steadfastly refuses to do is roll over and play dead. I have spent countless hours trying to teach him but he won't budge. He does not like being on his back and playing alive has far more to offer than laying motionless at my feet. And yet I continue to make the attempt. Every so often we spend a few days a week working on it, to disappointing results, before I give up, only to return, optimistic and idiotic, a month or so later.

Last night was one of those nights. After a long game of tug with Bash, his bright blue hammerhead shark, we started all over again. The cats lined up on the back of the couch to watch. Winnie seemed to shake her head in disappointment before turning her back on the whole affair. Olive, too lazy to move, stayed on the couch and blinked her wide eyes at us. Pip tried to get involved, jumped down next to me and immediately threw himself on his side, arched his back and sprawled, reaching his paws and tail out as far as he could and lay motionless. I offered him one of Roo's treats as a reward but that didn't seem satisfactory so he decided to just get (and stay) in the way. Duncan merely sat in front of me and listened to me repeat the command. He'd lay down, but rolling over was not in the cards. Pip did it once or twice more, mewing softly in pride, but still didn't get a treat. After an hour or so I gave up, scritched his ears and settled down on the couch with a book.

This morning on our walk the the air cold around us, the snow refrozen and crunchy and almost brittle underfoot. We'd just passed the triangle of aspens halfway down The Run when a particularly nasty squirrel in a tree started chittering and bellowing at us. Yesterday Duncan had interrupted an important rendezvous among the local rodents and they seemed not to have forgotten it or the way his sudden appearance had forced them to cancel the meeting and scatter in countless different directions. The squirrels here have been known to be somewhat aggressive and when this one came down the tree at Dunc, screeching and grunting at the top of his little lungs, I stepped between them and said very sternly, "Oh why don't you roll over and play dead!" The squirrel jerked his tail at me once or twice, pooped and scampered back up to the nearest branch where he could curse us in safety.

"C'mon, Dunc, let's go," I said and started to march away. I didn't hear him behind me so I turned to look back, expecting him to still be leaning against the side of the tree. Instead he was laying on his side, almost on his back, his two front paws curled up, his eyes fixed on me but not moving.

He got nearly an entire bag of treats for that one.

Blessings of the New Year

Happy new year, from a boy who doesn't like the cold and his dog, who loves nothing more than to gallop and roll through the snow.

May the blessings of the year be as numerous as the snowflakes that have fallen on Denver, may your troubles be as few as the degrees that have appeared in our thermometers the last two days and may your path always be free and clear.

Thank you for walking with us. We look forward to all the journeys the future has to offer.

A Quiet End

I spent much of this day disassembling Christmas, first pulling the lights out of the windows, removing the garland from the edge of the bar and from around the doorways, and finally by taking down Grandma's Christmas Village. It was a difficult day, one I don't relish despite how necessary I find it. I am not one who likes to linger over the holidays and silently--and sometimes not so silently--judge those whose trees and lights stay up past New Years Day. I think it's important to start the new year clean and fresh, without remnants of the year passed. And yet it breaks my heart to do it.

It was cold today so Duncan and I remained indoors. He stayed mostly on the couch and out of the way while he watched me tend to my chores. And he came to me when I teared up as I cleared away the houses and shops of the village. I saved Grandma's house for last and when I finally folded it up in bubble wrap and tissue paper I felt as though she--and Christmas--were impossibly far away. I felt alone and tired and afraid of what was in store for the coming year.

But Dunc was with me, comforting me in that special way he has, by either bringing me a pile of toys or urging me to venture out into the snow or by simply pulling me down onto the couch where he can rest his head on my side and breath sleepily into me. He is a good boy and I am blessed to have him with me, on this last day of 2010 and for all the days that loom ahead of us.

And so I sit here, counting the blessings of the year, a warm dinner in my belly, a cup of hot cocoa (sweet and spiked) steaming on the table in front of me, Philip Glass' "Mad Rush" playing softly on the speakers, a pup curled next to me, two cats behind me and another in the bedroom snoring into my pillow. It is a quiet night, exactly as I hoped it would be. There is nothing left to say,  no one to visit, no more steps to take. I need only watch the clock roll over and begin again.

May the blessings of the coming year be like blades of grass on a sunny hillside for you. May each step you take be strong and sure and concerned less with destination and more with journey. And perhaps if we're both lucky, Duncan and I will meet you out there on the trail. We can walk arm in arm and tell each other of the miles we traveled and those we have yet to traverse. How grand it will be.

Holiday Glee

Here is the annual holiday video Ruth and I made this year. Many of you have already seen it on Facebook but I thought I'd post it here, too, even though some of you felt Dunc didn't appear enough. I, of course, believe the entire world needs more Duncan in it, but we'll just have to be patient and see what next year yields.

Enjoy!

Listening to the Snow

It is a quiet night, a snowy night, one of the first we've had in Denver all year. Duncan and I stepped outside for a walk down to the mailbox, the snow falling cold on our faces, crunching softly under our feet. While he sniffed the places he hasn't visited while we were in Idaho for a week, I closed my eyes and listened to the snow fall, a nearly imperceptible crystalline sound, like a whisper of bells through the trees. I am glad to be home and off the treacherous Wyoming highways we braved yesterday, but that sound, that faraway holiday tinkle of snow falling on branches and other snow, made me miss home more than I have in a long time. It would be nice to be there tonight, sitting near the people who love me, the firelight flickering on the faces, the smell of mom's candles filling the room.

The sound of the falling snow and the silence of the city around me have reminded me how much I miss them, how precious being there is. A line from a Cole Porter song has been running through my head almost constantly:

There's no love song finer

but how strange--the change

from major to minor--

ev'ry time we say goodbye.

We had a wonderful visit, much of it spent sitting at home in front of the fireplace talking with mom or walking up the hillside behind her home to the wide sage plain that overlooks the Portneuf Valley, Duncan ambling at my side, nose to the ground, hunting out bleached deer bones rather than squirrels and rabbits, his tail standing tall above him. He loves it there in a way that is magical to me, and seeing it through his eyes is like seeing it in a new way, or for the first time. I marvel at his wonder for the lichen which grows vividly green at the base of the junipers and the way he rolls in it, pushing his face into its softness. Or the way he wanders far ahead of me through the narrow winding tunnels of the tall sage until he is good and lost and then stops and listens for the sound of my boots on the soft, breakable shale, then sprints back in my direction, his eyebrows raised excitedly, a smile wide on his face, a look in his eyes as though there is much he discovered, all of it amazing and important, from the peeling bark of the junipers to the wide field of once-purple nettles now fallen over, pushed by the wind and laying flat like a blanket across the ground.

I love my dog more than many, many things, but I love him so much more in Idaho, where the world becomes wondrous, where my mother dotes on him and plays with him, where the wind stirs the red hair on the top of his head and Zeus, the neighbor dog, scampers alongside us, where his love of the world is bigger than the plains, longer than the valley where Pocatello nestles, and higher than the clouds that spill like great plumes of water down the mountainsides I call home.

Happy Christmas

Grandma's Christmas Village

There is one place I would love to take Duncan for a walk, but we can only get there at Christmas and only because my grandmother––who loved Christmastime more than any other time of year, and worked tirelessly to ensure it was as magical for her children and grandchildren as it was for her––built it with her own two hands. You won't find it on any map for no roads leads there. The only compass that will lead you there is a willingness to open your heart–– if only for one day––and allow your imagination to see the world as you did when you were very small and new to the world.

My grandmother was a woman who always needed something to do, be it quilting baby blankets for each of her grandchildren, constructing magical hot-air balloons from mesh and yarn, redecorating the house every few years, fishing with my grandfather, and then finally assembling the Christmas village that took a decade to build, although I'm sure if she was she still with us it would have continued to grow and expand as all good places should.

While many people have a Christmas village none compare to Grandma's. She hand-painted every piece––all one hundred twenty buildings––and all of the snow-covered trees that filled it. At first it was only a few houses and shops, but over the years it grew and grew and finally my grandfather was summoned to build a mountain, which he did because he wanted to make her happy and loved her more than anything, even fishing and tying flies. Each year the mountain rose up, nearly six feet high, in their front room, comprised of ten street levels. It was wired so that each home lit up as though the occupants were gathering for Christmas dinner. The Dickensian street lamps in front of the houses glowed a soft orange and cast warm pools of light in the cottony snow at their bases. A vast night sky hung overhead with mirrored stars and a miniature Santa in his sleigh, with all the reindeer, flying overhead. Down below, at the base, a farmhouse and livestock looked out over a long train track that wound in a circle, around it. An electric train chugged across it, vanishing into a tunnel on one side only to emerge a few moments later on the other.

It was remarkable feat, the pride of all her hard work and hobbies, and each year when we arrived on Christmas day, she would take me by the hand and lead me into the front room to visit the village and show me all the new additions, not just to the mountain but to her entire collection spread throughout the house, from the crystal snowman and woman who ice skated to the bells she hung in the door that played the most magnificent Christmas songs.

Grandma's death was the hardest thing I have ever endured and although my heart broke the morning she passed, I could not help but wonder how Christmas could ever be the same. The village was divided up among her children and grandchildren, never to be complete again. My portion, though, means more to me than anything else I own, and when I assemble it and turn on those lights I can't help but imagine trudging through its snowy street with Duncan, stopping in the cafe for a cup of hot chocolate, hearing the bell on the door ring when we enter the pet store, smelling the warm coffee and deep woody scent of the bookstore, listening to the bells toll in the church steeple that rises above the duck pond where the geese flock. Duncan's tags would jingle on his leash like silver bells and no one would mind my whistling "The Carol of the Bells," my favorite Christmas carol, as we peeked in the shop windows and waved to the people inside their warm, cozy homes as they draped garland on their trees or placed the star on top.

 

This is my seventh Christmas without Grandma but looking at my piece of the great village she created and sitting in the dark with Duncan while I envision our walk through it, has kept her Christmas spirit very much alive. Sometimes, in the house she painted with her address, which sits front and center, next to the big tree that lights up with a hundred tiny bulbs, I imagine I can see her there, back in the kitchen making divinity and fudge, preparing the dill bread she knew I loved so much, wiping her fingers on her apron at the sight of me outside her window.

"Merry Christmas, Curtie," she would say.

"Merry Christmas, Grandma," I would beam as we leaned in to hug and kiss each other on the cheek.

And then she would take me by the hand, pull me inside and lead me around to see the red and green and golden magic she loved so much.

Merry Christmas, Grandma. I miss you.

Solstice: Fire-dancing with the Moon

The night walked down the sky with the moon in her hand. (Frederick L. Knowles)

We are always moving, traveling from one place to another, and although we may not be aware of it, it happens, in the blood pumping through our veins, the breaths we take, the skin we shed and leave behind like a trail of bread crumbs wherever we go. We spin at 1, 038 miles an hour on this planet of ours, which careens around the sun, which, in turn, moves around the center of the galaxy at speeds impossible to imagine. There is no such thing as stillness, not even in the sculpture created by moonlight.

I pulled myself out of bed an hour ago and got dressed while a puzzled Duncan looked on, his head cocked to one side, the hair on one ear askew and sticking up at odd angles from the short time he slept on the pillow next to me. He stretched and followed me to the door where I filled my pockets with treats and leashed him up. There was no urgency, none of the mad chirping and dancing that accompanies my return home each evening. He was quiet and calm, perhaps still dreaming of the snow which has yet to fall thick enough for him to play in. He followed me down the stairs and through the parking lot, where lovers had gathered on patios and in doorways, holding each other and marveling at the deep night above them. He followed me across the empty street and into the darkness of the park, which I was sure belonged entirely to us.

And so we walked, off leash, Dunc following close at my side, reluctant to venture too far away from the sidewalk, uninterested in the goose droppings or the twigs that litter the ground from the newly cut trees. Our footfalls were quiet, without even a near echo, and I wondered if every night at the park was like tonight, so still, so empty, with so little movement.

But the moon told a different story. Fat and bloated, as big high in the sky as it appears when new on the horizon, but red and turning redder each minute, strange in color, as small and easily plucked as a grape or a great burning, orange eye turning further away from us with each step we took. But it was remarkable, the reason I'd climbed from bed and brought Dunc into the center of darkness at the edge of the hill behind the high school, shielded from the lights of the city and the sounds of whatever late traffic worked its way through the streets. It is the solstice, the night when the world turns and our days slowly begin to lengthen, when the promise of walks with sunshine in our face grows ever more clear. I played blind and closed my eyes and imagined the bright spot of the sun on my closed lids and the tug of Duncan's leash guiding me along, a game I play on nearly every summer walk. The moon is no sun, though, and its red glow this night offered nothing in the way of a path, but I felt it there, the shadow of the earth moving across its surface as we moved across this small patch of earth.

And then there was someone else, a woman with her small white dog, both of them bundled up even though it was not that cold. I felt her before I saw her and when I opened my eyes we both paused on the walk and smiled at one another.

"Amazing, isn't it?" she asked, pointing at the moon above with a quick jerk of her chin. I nodded. "I had to see it," she said. "I didn't want to sleep thought it. I guess you felt the same."

"It's a lovely night for a walk," I told her.

She nodded. "Keep moving," and then walked away.

We moved on, in no particular direction, neither Dunc or myself in any hurry to return home to bed. The air felt good on my face, clean and crisp, and the sky was clear and vast above.

Soon there were flashes of light through the trees near the top of the park, at the edge of the playground. Duncan saw them first, pausing mid-step to watch, a low, nearly inaudible whine in his throat. It was an orange glow, then two orange glows, spinning madly around each other, back and forth, slowing and then speeding up until they were bright streaks in the air, like the rotors of a helicopter. Then I smelled smoke and realized it was fire. Someone was dancing and juggling fire at the top of the park under the red moon. I coaxed Duncan forward and moved slowly in the direction of the twin balls of flame and the person who controlled them.

He was shirtless and alone and standing in the grass not far from where he'd parked his car. The night wanted to paint his glowing chest blue but those spinning balls of fire held it at bay, coloring him the color of the moon, rust and red, and yellowed with waving shadows. His eyes were bright and wide but his face was void of expression as he stared forward into the darkness while his arms and hands seemed to move independently of his body, almost without thought.

After a very long time he slowed and the fire lost its momentum and fell loose at his sides, dripping wet, chemical flames into the dirt at his feet.

"That's amazing," I whispered.

"I thought I was alone," he said, breathing hard and jerking his head to flip his hair out of his eyes. At first I thought him older than me, but once he'd slowed I could see he was hardly twenty, his face smooth and without a blemish.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you."

"No, no, you didn't interrupt at all. I just didn't expect to see anyone." He quenched the fire in two cans that rested near his feet. "I came out for the moon. I thought I'd dance and celebrate the solstice in my own way. I didn't want to sleep through the eclipse. I wanted to be a part of it."

I knew what he meant. Movement. Movement. It would be a shame to be still on a night like tonight. I had been pulled from bed and brought my best friend to the darkness to be alone with the movement of the earth's shadow across the face of the moon (oh, how wonderful to be there, watching the world move slowly in front of the sun, its light exploding all around the globe upon totality). The same thing had pulled the woman and her own four-legged companion toward the park, and this young man with his fire dance and desire to stand nearly naked in the cold to watch a once in a lifetime event.

It will be two-hundred ninety-three years before this happens again, a lunar eclipse on the winter solstice, and I am grateful that my best friend was at my side, working our way through the night, the moon and the dog star Sirius bright in our eyes, Orion hunting just below, all the stars spread out and bright as though I'd never seen them before, no destination, only a journey at our feet.

I will never forget this night. We moved through it and deep into memory.

Wild Kingdom

Nature has been plentiful--and playful--down in The Run this fall. The ever-present squirrels have been quite vocal on our morning walk, scattering at Duncan's approach and then sitting high on their branches cursing at us as we pass below. The little gray and brown birds, quite ordinary in every way, have been abundant --and dangerous--as they erupt from their shelter in the shrubs as my passing Duncan pounces on them. The geese have reclaimed the golf course, where they move in one giant amoebic mass leaving little green tootsie roll prizes behind them after they pass. Even the hawks have been more active. Late last summer a young hawk moved in and has spent many mornings watching us from the top of the iron fence that divides the property and the golf course.

This morning it seemed we could hardly move through the profusion of wildlife that moved along the trail. Squirrels undulated through the grass and up the trunks of the trees, little birds glided through the air as thick as summer gnats and hopped among the naked tree branches, their song loud and unconducted. An owl perched at the top of the cottonwoods watching us and even a fast-moving rabbit made an appearance. It must have been like Christmas morning for Duncan, who couldn't decide which way to run, which creature most deserved his attention. It was warm and we were early and there was no rush so I lagged behind, content to watch him scamper back and forth, first to the trunk of one tree then back to the shrubs along the edge of the building. The sun had just come up over the line of the buildings, the cool air warmed with the light of the sun and all seemed right with the world.

And then a shadow fell over the sun. A squirrel, halfway up a nearby crab apple tree screamed and threw himself into the air toward the shrubs. Duncan's entire body tensed as I turned just in time to see the young hawk, much bigger than when last I'd seen him, dive from the roof where he'd been perched, and slice through the air. He came at me, raised a wing and effortlessly veered away as I ducked. Duncan jumped at it but it swerved again, circled the trunk of the tree, dropped just a few feet and grabbed the struggling squirrel in its talons. The hawk opened its wings and screeched, its grace suddenly gone with the weight of the squirming rodent. Its wings unfurled and it flapped loudly as it struggled to gain altitude. Duncan lunged again and snapped while the squirrel twisted and flopped, dragging the hawk down further until it had no choice but to drop its prey, correct its course--which, for the third time in twenty-fours hours happened to be directly at me--and fly away. I ducked low as it passed overhead, the sweep of its wings a breeze against my face. The squirrel was dazed but had nothing to fear. Duncan chased the bird and barked once as it passed over the treeline and vanished into the morning haze. No one messes with his squirrels but him.

Cheat

Duncan doesn't like to lose and, like my friend Ruth, has somehow reconciled cheating as a perfectly valid means of winning. In the morning I prepare his breakfast before heading out on our walk around the complex where we inevitably meet up with Pepper the work dog, who loves him despite his indifference and me for the treats I carry in my pocket. After visiting for a few minutes we usually bump into Sophie, the little white collie mix, who looks like a princess and dances around us in circles like a ballerina. Duncan pays little attention though because he knows a nice raw chicken breakfast is waiting for him at home. The squirrels in The Run are the only thing which really capture his attention but when I mention the food waiting for him at home he's quick to forget them and gallop back along the narrow path between the  buildings and the fence-line toward home. By the time we round the corner he's nearly in a full sprint. I make him wait for me at the bottom of the stairs and ask how badly he wants breakfast. He can hardly sit still while I challenge him to a race up the stairs and just as I begin to count he takes off, leaving me behind, his tail a red swinging flurry ahead of me, ready to whap me in the face should I gain on him, which I rarely do. It's not fair, but it makes me smile and starts the mornings off with a nice little adventure, the kind he's sure to always win.

Courage Under Fire

This morning there was a great deal of activity in The Run. We were late for our walk and the squirrels and little brown and gray birds must have assumed we weren't coming. The place was thick with them. As Duncan darted ahead of me, sniffing the ground but being cautious around the first floor patio lair where the three snarling Harpies live, foaming and frothing and even attacking each other when they spot us. They weren't there, which was a nice thing for once, so Duncan had free reign of The Run and bounded far ahead to the low shrubs where the squirrels hide. I watched as they scattered before him, some darting up the trunks of the nearest trees while a few scampered under the fence toward the giant willow on the edge of the golf course. As I approached the little birds rose up in a great, frantic cloud  around his head and vanished into the lower branches above. After they had passed and The Run grew silent around us, Duncan stopped and stood still. I paused to watch him. He cocked his head as something in the shrubs stirred. A small brown shape moved through the twisted branches. I leaned in close to see if perhaps it was a bunny or an injured squirrel, readying my leash just in case. Only Dunc's nose and ears moved and then very slowly he leaned forward, his head vanishing into the brambles. I watched, not breathing, and saw the small shaped take a short hop forward and then exploded straight up at me, it's wings a flurry of motion. Startled I stepped back as the bird flew with all the power it could muster directly toward me. I saw it's tiny black eyes widen just as it struck me square in the chest and sent me tumbling backward. It bounced once, corrected and then flew away while I was still laying in a daze in the cold, brittle grass. A moment later, though, a familiar face appeared above me as Duncan approached, the smile broad on his face, his tail wagging wide from side to side. He leaned down, poked his nose once into the place on my chest where the bird had struck then bent forward and gave me a great big sloppy wet kiss across my cheek, an honor for my valor in battle and courage under fire.

The Glow of Home

After a long day without windows, when the only light that seeps down the hall and into my office is dull and gray, a day with a promise of snow and thick, threatening clouds looming down on us over the tall peaks to north and west, after a long drive home amid traffic whose lights through my rain dappled windshield are as stationary but as bright as those on a melting Christmas tree, after carrying my heavy legs up the thirty-seven steps to my door, there is quiet and peace and the soft final red glow of the day, three cats and a dog eager to brighten what little remains of this December evening. That is what makes it all worthwhile.

Slow Start, Big Finish

It was dark when I got home and Duncan was slow to rouse and greet me. He and Olive had curled up against my pillow and were fast asleep when I opened the door and slipped in. Pip mewed at me from the windowsill in the office, where he'd perched to watch the dogs and their people go by. Winnie was sitting on the edge of Duncan's food shelf, her face thrust deep into his big yellow bowl lapping at the water and sending big drops of it raining down on the carpet. 

I stepped down the hall to the bedroom and found Olive and Roo asleep. Olive jumped up at my arrival and began hugging me and nuzzling her chin against my cheek as she does when I come home, but Dunc rolled over, groaned and pulled his paw over his eyes. I pressed my ear to his cheek, gave him a kiss and whispered, "Is it time for a walk?" He stirred a little but seemed reluctant to move, perhaps thinking I was just a dream, that he'd wake and discover it was still bright morning and I'd only just slipped out the door. He laid in bed and watched me change clothes through sleepy eyes. Once I'd donned my coat,  though, slipped his new green bean treats into my pocket and was rattling the leash he jumped up and scampered toward me as if I'd only just walked in. He grabbed the leash in his mouth and pulled me around the apartment, his back half shimmying and swaying, the chirp alive and well in his throat.

Usually he settles down by the time we reach the bottom of the stairs and step out into the parking lot. Last night, though, he whined and chirped all the way down the sidewalk to the street, pausing only long enough to pee before resuming it all over again. We crossed the first four lanes of Bowles then stopped  under the trees on the wide grassy median to wait for the eastbound traffic to pass. Duncan sat right on top of my foot,  his weight warm and soft, watching me, waiting for me to give to all-clear. Traffic was heavy, though, and the wait was longer than I expected. Duncan must have thought he needed to earn a trip to the park so he immediately went through his routine: he barked, he sat up pretty then threw himself down onto his belly, jumped up, gave me a high five and when that didn't work gave me ten. He barked out "I love you" a few times, tossed himself onto his belly again, rolled onto his side, tried to say the blessing like he does every night, then gave me five more. And I just watched. No commands, no rewards. I was an audience for his long performance. When I glanced up, laughing and smiling at him, I looked right into the face of a small family whose car had been stopped at the light. Two small faces were planted against the back window and the driver, their mother, was beaming ear to ear. They honked and waved and drove on once the light changed, three pairs of hands applauding at his routine.