The Path Beckons

Duncan and I took our last good walk of the year just before the sun was setting, down the winding trail I've carved out of the snow in The Run. The light was golden, the snow was blue on the ground and my good dog was leading the way, ever onward.

It has been a good year for me, the best since that terrible Spring of 2005. I see on Facebook and in listening to my friends that many people were not as fortunate as I have been. I have a good job and a nice home. The love of my life has returned and we've been working on forging out our future together. My family is beautiful and perfect. I am aware of my blessings and do not take a single one for granted. And on windy afternoons such as this, with the world painted in the final exquisite light of the year, I count them again and again and turn my face toward the coming year and hope that it can be even better. Not just for me, but for everyone.

I do not know where our walks will lead but the path beckons and Duncan and I will always follow.

Blessings to you in the new year. And thank you.

A Thief in the Night

There are two trees in this home: the big one for the two-legged folk (although you'd think Pip and Olive had broken into our stash of catnip and were stoned out of their minds with the amount of time they spend laying under it staring into the branches and lights, not touching anything, just staring with wide eyes) and the small tree for the four-legged members of the household. The big tree is real and smells wonderful and is covered in countless fancy ornaments. The small one is fake and bendy and smells like the Rubbermaid container where we store it and is decorated with those ornaments that we've somehow acquired over the years––a few Precious Moments collectibles that hurt my teeth to even look at, a Boba Fett ornament, a gangly cowboy and a pastel pony for him to ride, just to name a few. They have been given to us by co-workers and misguided friends, or people who don't exactly share our taste in holiday decor. It's not an ugly tree by any means but it's not the one we display prominently. It can be knocked over with minimal fuss and should one of the ornaments break we wouldn't really be upset.

For the most part Duncan and the cats are very good about the trees. Olive does occasionally give in to her weakness for wrapping paper and bows, but generally speaking everyone has a very clear understanding that the trees are for looking at, not touching.

One member of our household, though, has taken an interest in a particular ornament and can't seem to contain his desire to simply look at it. The small, fuzzy Golden Retriever wearing the Santa cap and scarf has captured Duncan's interest and there's almost nothing I can do to stop it. It's not enough for it to sit under the tree, right up front, prominently displayed. No, it needs to be carried around in his mouth, tucked under his paws, hidden from view when he sits on the couch, carried to the food bowl and back, and buried among his other toys where it can't be easily discovered.

Duncan has learned our routine. At night he knows when the TV is turned off and the teeth are brushed and when we amble around in the dark turning off the lights that it's time for bed. Typically he'll either climb onto the bed or curl up among the blankets and pillows in his kennel. Since Christmas erupted in our apartment and the ornament has made its appearance, he has taken to staying in his spot under the coffee table and waiting until we're in bed before he joins us. It's when the lights are out that he sneaks the ornament out from under the tree, being careful not to disturb anything else, and retires to his "room," the Retriever cupped gently in his mouth. That's where I find it every morning, wet and scrunched down under the blanket Mom knitted for him or resting under one of his Pooh Bear's paws. Unlike his other toys he does not chew on it, merely slobbers it to death. And because it's so cute and he's so innocent about it, I let it happen. Whenever I take it from him he looks at me with his big, doleful brown eyes, somewhat embarrassed at being caught again, but he watches and waits for the next opportunity to snatch it away from the tree where he alone can appreciate its Christmas magic.

 

First Christmas

It has been a busy week. Ken and I finally decided that we wanted to stay here together for Christmas, with Duncan and the cats, and start our own tradition rather than separate and go home for the holidays as usually happens. So we decided that in in honor of our first Christmas back together after a two year separation we'd go all out. We bought our first Christmas tree since 2005, dragged out all the decorations we've amassed over the past sixteen years, and have spent our free time making the apartment look as though the North Pole exploded all over it. Duncan and the cats have been quite patient and well-behaved. There have been no incidents involving the digestion of tinsel or marking of the tree. In fact, Pip, Olive and Winnie have spent much of their time laying peacefully under the tree gazing up at the lights and shadows among the thick branches. Duncan was initially a bit unsure of the Santa I put up in the window but he seems to have come to terms with his presence here.

We even put up the Christmas village my grandmother hand-painted. And Ken had the great idea of stringing icicle lights around the edge of the ceiling in the kitchen so they look like stars shining over it.

 

This Christmas will be the first in my life I haven't been home with my family in Idaho but I'm looking forward to the time with Ken and the new traditions we'll start together. Duncan will miss running across Mom's mountain and watching the herds of deer as they move across her yard under the pale Idaho moon, but we'll find a way to make it up to him.

I have no doubt there is love enough in this home to make up for all the things that will be missed.

I Remember

I love the mornings, especially the snowy ones. I love the deep silence of the world and the sound of snow falling on other snow, through the branches of the Aspens and willows. I love that first plunge outside when the wind swirls around my ankles as though sniffing me out for weak spots, pulling dancing flakes around me as it goes. I love the music of silence and snow and the bass rhythm of my feet pushing through the soft sift, the crunch, as satisfying as walking through piles of leaves in October.

I tend to forget these things, though. Snow, it seems, like time, whitewashes my memory, ensconcing its rough edges and straight plains with the crystalline ivory of winter's down. But Duncan is here to remind me, as he did this morning when I woke before him, tiptoed down the hall and into the kitchen where I put my water on to boil. I pulled the blinds and looked out on the swirling white of this December morning and caught my breath. It was beautiful, looking over the golf course and the park and the mountains beyond them, the clouds low and white, the ground and trees the color of the sky. But it looked cold and I'd almost made up my mind to climb back into bed when I felt the cool nudge of Duncan's nose in my palm. He had crept out of bed, tousle-headed and quiet to stand with me at the window, his still-lazing tail making a feeble wag and thump against my calf.

"Do you know," I asked him, my voice soft in the quiet of the apartment, "how much I love you?" I turned and gestured out the window. "I love you this much, Roo, enough to go out in that." He nudged me with his cheek, like a cat, and plopped down to watch me change my clothes, make a production out of pulling my boots and hat on, struggle with the zipper on my coat, slide my hands into my gloves, still wet from last night's last walk. And when I was done he was waiting, his soft weight pressed against me, his eyes lit up as though to say, "You love this; you've just forgotten is all. We'll remember it together. I'll show you. Trust me."

And so I did. I stepped out into the breezeway, down the stairs and out into a world that was swirling and churning, cold on my face and those narrow places on my wrists that poke through between the coat sleeve and the glove. Duncan trotted through the snow, pushing it forward, little balls of it riding the crest like dolphins before a ship. He ran forward like I run on late Spring days when the Russian Olives are in bloom and I don't want to miss a single moment of their existence, a single fragrance or tiny yellow petal, when life seems so full but so short and there is much to be absorbed to earn my way into the next life. Duncan ran like that, here and there, from the fence to the low shrubs, to the patios where other dogs watched, dry but with the tips of their noses white and shiny with cold.

And then halfway down The Run he stopped, suddenly and sharp, the snow rising in cartoon-perfect clouds behind him. He turned his face up to the low sky, closed his eyes and breathed in the tumbling flakes, some of them falling on the soft skin of his eyelids. I was next to him wondering what it was that had caught his attention when the sound of the chimes from a balcony above us drifted into my ears. They churned softly in the spinning air, random, twinkling aluminum and bamboo notes caught on the wind, a quiet tune played only for the two of us. Duncan did not know them for what they were and I wondered if he thought, "Ah, the sound of winter." And his wonderment became my wonderment and it was then that I remembered I love these mornings, perhaps more than Spring mornings among the bees and the new grass bending up through dark earth. I pulled the hat from my head and turned my face into the falling snow and breathed it in as my dog was teaching me to do, and those chimes sounded like the way I imagine heaven must sound.

Where my dog goes I will follow. Always.

December

Snow is not an easy thing to forgive but the sweetness of December somehow makes it possible. Snow is supposed to fall in December and for that reason––coupled with the fact that I was able to work from home today and didn't have to drive on it––I was able to enjoy it.

A child of late Spring and Summer, it is difficult for me to find the beauty in a snowfall and were it not for Duncan I would have missed that beauty for the last seven years. Before he came into my life I tended to hunker down tight during the long, cold, dark months, venturing out only when I needed to, almost never for the enjoyment of it. I am not a skier, I do not snowshoe, sledding is something I haven't done since my college days, and it has been many years since I last built a snowman. But with Duncan at my side, ushering in the holiday season by walking through the snow has become a marvelous thing, full of discovery and delight.

Vickie, my friend at Four-Legged Views, issued a challenge recently in which she asked her readers to take a picture every forty feet of their walk. I do this quite often without the challenge but it was nicely timed with the first snow of December and I wouldn't mind sharing parts of that walk with you.

And for Ken, who had to work this morning and wasn't able to join us on our walk, the last leaves of his favorite bush, red like kisses melting through the snow.

It will be a good December as long as I have my dog, my cats and Ken at my side throughout it. I could ask for nothing more to keep me warm.

WinPipO

Several years ago Ken and I decided that we didn't want to pay outlandish prices for scratching posts for our cats when we could easily make our own for far cheaper. We went to several stores, looked at how they were constructed, consulted some online resources, paid a visit to our local hardware store and got what we needed. In almost no time at all we'd made three posts, one for each of the cats and spent the next eight years watching Winnie, Pip and Olive love the heck out of them. But at some point during the Thanksgiving weekend I came to the conclusion that the posts had been loved nearly to death. They still stood straight and tall but the rope had come loose and the Berber carpet we'd used was in tatters. So we stripped them clean, bought new carpet and fixed them up. And when we were done, Chelsea at Hero's Pets liked them so much she offered to make a place in her store for them if we wanted to make more and sell them.

So we hurried back to the hardware store, bought more materials and spent the last two days of the holiday break making more posts, which were delivered to Hero's this morning under the name WinPipO Scratching Posts.

One member of the family wasn't too pleased with the lack of attention and spent much of his time sulking around, getting in the way, whining to be taken outside and finally––when he realized we weren't going to stop––pouting, sighing loudly and watching us out of the corner of his eye.

 

Can you guess who???

The Simplest Thing

It was, what I thought, an ordinary walk in every way: the air was cool but clean, the sky was wide, the park was entirely ours. Duncan plodded along beside me, uninterested in roaming far and wide in search of any scraps or stray balls that might have appeared overnight. He was content to walk beside me, a happy, showy, Broadway sort of strut in his step, head high, ears higher, a grin on his face as he breathed in the morning air and sunshine and exhaled warm clouds of breath. I talked with him, as I always do, unconcerned that he's "just a dog" and that people might think the conversation one-sided. I know better, though. He responds in ways that only people who live with dogs would understand: dancing around me if he approves, cocking his head if he likes something I've said, blinking his wide eyes an agreement. We talk and share and confide and who cares what anyone else thinks.

I was unaware that we were being followed. I was whistling––a Christmas song––in time to Duncan's footfalls when the walker came up quite suddenly behind us. She was a short woman, athletic-looking, with her hair pulled back and a faded purple band covering her ears. he had a skier's face, tanned and lined by hours and hours in the sun on a mountainside. But she was smiling and relaxed.

"I hope you don't mind," she said as she came behind me, startling me and ending my whistle quite suddenly. "I've been behind you for awhile now and I just wanted to tell you that that is one happy dog."

And then she was past us, her arms swinging at her side in the way that serious walkers have. I didn't even have a chance to respond, so I looked at Roo who was looking at her, his tail wagging, and patted his shoulder.

Yes, indeed. He is one happy dog.

Thank You

The last few years have been some of the most challenging of my life and at times it's been difficult to find things for which to be thankful but this year my blessings are easily recognizable and I am can say for the first time since my family lost my grandmother in 2004 I am truly grateful and humbled by the blessings that have found their way into my life. On this incredible Thanksgiving afternoon, on a warm, sunny Denver day, I am thankful for

• Ken, who was able to find his way back home to Denver, and for the time we've been able to spend together since, rebuilding our family and bringing new life into these nearly sixteen years we've been a part of each others lives.
• the smell of homemade pumpkin pie first thing in the morning.
• Kevi, who reminded me this morning that we should be thankful for our troubles, for they too have purpose: to make us stronger and to help us truly appreciate the blessings that we have found.
• Patty Griffin's song "Heavenly Day," in which she sings, "No one on my shoulder / Bringing me fears / Got no clouds up above me / Bringing me tears / Got nothing to tell you / I got nothing much to say / Only I'm glad to be here with you / On this heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly heavenly day."
• The good people I work with, who are supportive and kind, who make me laugh and think equally hard, who have become a sort of family to me.
• The poetry of Mary Oliver.
• The soft weight of cats sleeping against me on cold nights.
• My family, who seem to get stronger and closer every day, especially my sister, Casey, who had a difficult year but has shone brighter than ever before.
• The memories I have of the people who have walked with me, if only for a time, and shared so many special experiences, from April and the WNG to Marc, who knows he's smarter than me; from Kelly and The Dirt People to John, who has cow dreams; from Little Ruth to David, who taught me that not only are things good, but they're good for you; from Karren and her cookies to Rick, who understands the butterflies as well as I do.
• The power of Skinadinkinaw!
• The "It Gets Better Project" and Dan Savage for changing so many lives.
• Russian Olive and Linden trees for being sweet enough to get me through the entire year.
• Orion standing watch over these Autumn skies.
• Facebook and the connections it has restored.
• Duncan, for his ability to say "I love you," for his voice and eyes, his delight and wisdom, for the miles we have walked and will continue to walk, for the courage he has taught me and the dreams he has encouraged, and for being with me, not only during the difficult days, but the kind ones as well.
• And, as always, A.A. Milne, who wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

And I am thankful to all the people who have joined Duncan and me on our walks through this blog, who comment and email and love him as much as I do. You have all enriched my life in countless ways.

Blessings to you, this Thanksgiving Day. May they be too numerous to count.

Together

The sun has not touched The Run in the early hours for what seems months. It is a cold place in the mornings, shaded but open to the golf course on one side, a narrow trail at the end of the wind's path, cold and loud. It can be quite unfriendly, especially under feet of snow, but it is a place we love and the place where we walk each morning, so we go there, just the two of us, Duncan and me.

This morning, in the hard frost of the earth, we found two leaves, fallen together some time in the night, the last from the Japanese Elm at the head of our trail. They tumbled from their roost, the only place they have ever knows despite looking out over the world, and fell as one, alighting as though holding hands.

Duncan leaned over them, sniffed them gently as he would a small animal, and waited for me to join him at their side. We looked down on them for a long moment, a smile on my face, infinite understanding on my dog's.

The Last to Go

It feels nearly complete, this Autumn turning. The trees, which have obscured my view of the mountains and the park since April, are little more than jagged charcoal lines bending and twisting into the sharp November sky. They are like fat, dark arteries fanning out into winding veins that end in a finger-like splay of capillaries, reaching into nothingness. And yet even they––bland and colorless––are beautiful in their starkness.

The Lindens were the last to let go. Their leaves held on, resisting the weight of our two October snow storms, curled up into tight knots around themselves, as brown as leather, as crisp as paper and as fierce as fists. And when they let go they did it all at once, a multitude in solidarity against the changing of the season. Our streets and lawns are covered with them, nearly knee deep in places. Duncan likes to run through them, pushing against them as he pushes through the water of the summer river, his chest heaving forward as his body rises and falls through their depths.

And though they are dead and will soon be buried and forgotten, their music is loud and true and, while it lasts, the most beautiful sound in all of Autumn.

All Those Years Ago

We fed Duncan early, took him for a late afternoon walk as the sun was setting and then another right before Ken and I went downtown to see the Broadway tour company's production of The Lion King. We came home, ate a very late dinner and took Roo for another quick walk before calling it a night and going to bed. It was only around three this morning, with Ken snoring on one side of me, Duncan on the other and Pip taking up most of my pillow, that I sat bolt upright in bed and caught Duncan's eyes, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps on the other side of the window, watching me. He sniffed once or twice then laid his narrow chin back down on his paws and blinked.

"We forgot Duncan," I said into the darkness.

"He's right here," Ken said, patting the bed beside him, his voice faraway, perhaps still in a dream. "Go back to sleep."

"No," I said, climbing out from under the covers and curling around Roo, who, having heard his name, was no longer asleep or even pretending. "It was seven years ago tonight you brought him home for the first time."

"Mmmph," Ken mumbled and resumed snoring.

So I laid next to Duncan, listening to him breath as my hand on his ribs rose and fell with each breath, and remembered that cold November night in 2004 when Ken arrived home, a small cardboard box seat-belted in his back seat. I met them in the parking lot and opened the door. In the darkness I saw a small red head poke itself up and turn toward me. Ken climbed out and watched, a grin on his face.

I touched Duncan for the very first time, pulled him up and toward my chest where he shivered and cowered against me, a high-pitched whine in his throat.

"You're so handsome, Little One," I said and kissed his head. Then I held him out so his belly caught the light of the moon and looked into his handsome eyes. "Are you a Duncan?" I asked.

He winked at me and I knew we'd be the best of friends.

Undivided Attention

It has been a long time since we have seen a squirrel in The Run. Ever since the arrival of Jeffrey's feral cat last Spring, their presence has dwindled and finally, by the mid-summer, they had vanished entirely. Before the arrival of the cat––who is now known as "Mama Kitty" for the litter of kittens she had near the hot tub heating unit last February during our coldest time of the year––Jeffrey adored the squirrels, left feeders out for them, and spent his mornings in his window watching Duncan chase them up the trees, up his screen and occasionally up me. They were the delight of our mornings and afternoon walks but Jeffrey could not turn his back on the cat. He took pity on the poor thing and slowly coaxed her into his apartment, even finding homes for each of her seven kittens. Mama Kitty, happy and healthy, stuck around but, sadly, our squirrels did not.

Now that the weather has turned cold and Mama Kitty has been confined indoors for most of the day, the squirrels have begun to return, if only for brief visits. When Duncan spotted one on our walk this morning there was little I could do to turn his attention away. He chased it out from under the shrubs and up an elm where he sat for nearly twenty minutes, a smile on his face, his ears raised, his attention focused entirely upon a single fat squirrel who looked down on me with exasperation. If it's not the cat, it's a dog. What's a rodent to do?

I finally had to put Duncan's leash back on him and drag him, snorting and huffing, away so we could resume our walk and I could finally head off to work. I'm not sure what happened to the squirrel but I know he won't be caught by surprise again.

April

November is at its best when it behaves as though it is April, with skies that change from bright and blue and filled with sunshine, to mottled grey with silver and gold-lined clouds, then back to what it was before, sweet and wide and warm; when the small brown birds flutter from bare branch to branch, lining up like exclamation points to watch, twitch-headed and nervous as Duncan and I pass below; when the first thing that greets us on a morning walk is a lazy-flying bee, wandering low and confused over the leaves which only appear golden from the proper angle but are muted and yellow husks when finally alighted upon. The bee swept up suddenly, as though rejoicing at the sight of other living creatures, zipped a tight spin around first my head then Duncan's, tip-toed across his back and sped away, through the fence to lose itself in the sinking yellow wilds of the tall grass that lays down along the wide edge of the golf course.

It is hard to remember the holidays and the gales of true, unfettered winter are so fast approaching when all the world seems to be teetering on the edge of Spring, when the few remaining ruby leaves of the bush whose name I still don't know look like polka dots and the air tastes of mint and cinnamon all at once. But until the morning I know Autumn has surely passed and winter has claimed her place, Duncan and I will walk and marvel and take our rejoicing where we can find it. Exclamation points, polka dots and all.

 

Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.

(Elizabeth Lawrence)

Nurse

After a week of tending to Ken's nasty cold I have finally succumbed. While mine has bypassed my head it entirely it went straight to my chest, where Ken's is currently residing. Both of us spent much of the night hacking and sputtering, getting up for drinks of water and occasional restless trips to the couch in order to let the other sleep.

Duncan, unlike myself, is not a complainer and made the most of the situation by spending the night on one side of the bed or the other, shifting as we took turns getting up, sprawling out while we were gone. He snored blissfully while we coughed, scattering the cats and sometimes the pillows. The cats, however, took our restless, dark wanderings as a sign that it was time to be fed and so followed us around, mewing loudly as they entwined themselves around our ankles and tripped us up and yowled even more when they realized their dish wasn't going to be refilled as we headed back to the bedroom.

Duncan is patient, though. I spent much of the day on the couch, drowsy and restless, completely unmotivated to take him out for a walk. The day was warm and the sun coming in through the windows warmer, but finally, groggy and rested, I relented and took him out for an afternoon stroll. The wind was chilly but nothing so bad that a jacket and gloves couldn't hold it bay. We wandered down to The Glen and briefly across the street to the park. Dunc has been a caregiver from day one so even though I took him off leash to let him run loose to chase leaves and the fast food wrappers fluttering through the parking lot, he stayed close by my side and kept his eye on me. And when I was tired and resumed my hacking, he readily turned back toward home without pulling on his leash.

And when I reclaimed my spot on the couch, two pillows tucked under my head and my grandfather's favorite blanket––the one I gave him for Christmas two years ago––pulled over me, Duncan merely curled up on my feet, rested his head on my ankles and stayed beside me, his eyes never fully closed by watchful of me every time I resumed coughing.

What a good boy.

The cats who helped raise him could take a lesson.

Sunday

Sundays are lazy days, at least after I clean the apartment, tend to the laundry, make the weekly menu and venture out for the groceries. My lunches come late and often I find myself curled up on the couch amid a pile of cats and a snoring Duncan curled up on the end of the couch while a book rests open and unread against my chest, the warm sun coming through the windows painting us all in gold. Sometimes there are no words to be written because sometimes our walks are just walks, quick jaunts down the stairs and around the property, lasting only long enough for Roo to sniff out his favorite spots and eye the geese which have begun to amass on the golf course side of the fence.

And when I find myself worrying about not having words to write or discoveries to make, memories to revisit, I simply follow Duncan's lead, which is to do nothing, to set the toys aside and allow my eyelids to grow heavy and spend the day dozing and dreaming.

So I think I'll set aside my fretting, kick off my shoes and rejoin the warmth of my four-legged friends on the couch, consider making a nice warm dinner and spend the rest of this night enjoying the exquisite delight of boredom and silence.

Always follow the example your dog sets. That's what I'm going to do.

Yes

It is an easy thing to do, on an Autumn afternoon, when the sky is bigger than you remember it ever being, and the sun, warm as it falls away toward Winter, is a thing that laughs at the wind and the tumult of the leaves ripping from the trees and the general discord of the season, to spend the day on the warm, serene side of the window watching the world shake itself loose outside and decide to nap and fold yourself in loud, vivid dreams and fill your head with the downy cotton of nappiness. It is all well and good but if it lasts too long you risk missing the smile and squint the sun and wind force your face into when you walk into them, while the clatterous music of dancing, bobbing leaves scuttles at your feet all around you.

And so groggy and sleepy-headed I let Duncan lead me to the park where, despite the rude nibble of the snow-scented wind, loud and insistent, I laughed and ran with him, held my arms out wide at my sides, unconcerned with witnesses to such dog-induced silliness, and felt my jacket pushed back tight against my body––flapping like excess skin under my arms and behind me––and imagined we'd leapt from a plane and felt both the sweet suck of gravity and the abuse and crush of the air against us as we moved down and back into the world to the safety of earth where we could run and jump and daydream some more.

Sometimes it takes wind and cold and a dancing dog to remind you what is real and important and what should be left behind on the safe side of a window.

“i thank god for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees & for the blue dreams of sky & for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes.” (e.e. cummings)

No Good Scenario

Duncan took in quite the haul today: three tennis balls this morning––two of them multi-colored!––and the bottom of someone's shoe tonight.

It makes me think of Kevi's dog Ranger, a stocky, grinning German Shepherd, smarter than he let on, and devious. One day Ranger came home dragging a deer carcass behind him. When Kevi first told me I envisioned him running wild across the foothills of southeast Idaho, chasing a herd of whitetail deer and finally bringing one down, which he promptly dispatched and brought home to share with his family. The truth of the matter was he took it down from someone's garage during hunting season and dragged it a block or two home.

I'm not sure either scenario works well with Duncan and the shoe.

Hide and Seek

Duncan loves a good game of hide and seek. Sometimes I'll hide in the apartment, behind or door or in the shower. A couple of times I've even hidden behind a mirror which confuses the heck out of him. At the park when he wanders away I'll duck behind a tree or a low shrub or wall until he comes back, a panicked look on his face, his ears high, his face turning this way and that.

This morning at the park he decided it was his turn.

I think we both agree he hasn't quite figured out the finer points of the game.

Mosaic

I am not a man of few words, as these seven-hundred seventy-eight musings on this little outpost of mine can attest, but even I know when it's time to shut up and let the world and our walks through it speak for themselves.

Inferno

The world was on fire this afternoon just before the sun dipped below the dark, jagged silhouette of The Rockies. The park was ablaze with the last of Autumn's leavings, from the single tongues of flaming leaves catching the late season light, the yellowing blades of grass illuminated through their crisp, delicate skin, the veins dark against the burning, to the inferno that dazzled the trees above our heads.

The grass was a kaleidoscope of the kind of colors I haven't seen since my days in the serene solitude of afternoons spent walking the campus at Lake Forest College: reds the color of heart-blood, browns and blues so deep they were purple, like meaty, still-living tissue, golds and ambers like dreams. Even the walkways were ablaze with the final glow of the fallen locust leaves, tiny wisps of fire that melted the sidewalks of my imagination.

Surely this is Autumn's final burning before winter lays claim to the land. Not that Duncan cares. He is fireproof and reflects the blaze back into the world, lighting our way through the dark months to come.

Late

I am not a fan of this time change, most especially because Duncan and the cats don't quite know what to think of it and have somehow decided to hold me accountable.

First they thought I overslept this morning, which Olive and Pip were more than happy to inform me of at 4:30 by yowling and nuzzling against my cheek. Winnie, ever polite and always a lady, merely jumped from her perch on my hip to the floor then back to my hip, over and over again. Duncan, sleeping beside me in place of Ken, who has taken to the couch to recover from the cold that's been busy trying to infect me, merely stood up, stretched, leaned over my face, snorted once then settled back down on my pillow. I shooed the cats away, pulled the pillow over my head and tried to catch a few more winks but was unable to do so amid their clamoring insistence. The sun was up when I finally crawled from beneath the covers, and as I prepared their dish they were not at all reserved in voicing their displeasure at the lateness of their breakfast.

Twelve hours later when I finally returned home I was greeted by all three cats and Roo sitting in a half moon around the door, stern looks of displeasure on their faces, visible even in the darkness and the sliver of light shining through the door from the breezeway behind me. I stumbled down the hall, my back aching, and attempted to change from my work clothes to my walking attire. While trying to slip out of my khakis, one leg in and one leg out, Olive winding her way around one leg and trying to climb into my pants, Pip decided it was the perfect time to climb up my back, one crisp, sharp paw at a time. Winnie, patient and kind, merely yowled from the doorway as I hopped around the room, trapped between my clothes and Olive with Pip attempting to ride my shoulders for the full eight seconds.

Duncan, unhappy with the darkness and the necessity of the leash and the walk down the parking lot to the place where we cross the street, rather than his free ambling down The Run, eventually softened to me and stayed by my side once we reached the park and I could untether him and let him roam free, far and wide. He seemed to understand the circumstances were beyond my control and forgave me, and even stepped protectively in front of me when we returned home an hour later and were met by a cacophony of cats screaming for their dinner.

I do not like this change in the hours and the new, deep darkness of our walks, but he was like a golden light guiding me through it.

Thankfully it's only seven more weeks until the stupid southern hemisphere loosens its grip on our sun and allows it to creep earlier into our lives and stay later.