All Smiles

I can't say I blame Duncan one bit. After all, it is close to a hundred degrees and the air feels like hot sandpaper just opening the door and stepping out into it. The sidewalk is nearly impossible to stand on in my tennis shoes and poor Dunc does a little jogging dance from one foot back to the other whenever we hurry from the breezeway to the grass. 

The Run, with its maples and Lindens, is a blessedly shady spot, but relief from this heat is hard to find even there. It is the monsoon season in Denver, which means we get clouds and rain in the afternoons, which tends to cool things off a bit, and even though the clouds are already forming, Duncan was in no mood to wait. He hurried ahead of me to Jeffrey's patio where the squirrels and bluejays congregate for the ample food Jeffrey puts out for them. He's taken quite a fancy to Duncan and has started buying treats for Roo whenever we pass by. Duncan does his cute little dance. gives Jeffrey a high five, rolls over, does everything he know how to do to milk every last treat from the man.

This afternoon, though, Jeffrey wasn't expecting us. He was standing on his patio watching his two cats lurk their way through the long grass on the golf course side of the fence, a chocolate popsicle melting down his hand. Duncan appeared out of nowhere and didn't wait a moment for Jeffrey to offer a treat. He merely jumped up, latched onto the popsicle and bit it in half, his tongue lapping up the drippings as he went. Jeffrey didn't even have time to react and by the time I got there was laughing hysterically, a perfectly clean popsicle stick clutched in his hand.

"I am so sorry," I apologized.

"It's okay," he laughed and held out his hand for Dunc to clean up. "It's chocolate-flavored, but don't worry, there's not an ounce of chocolate in it. He should be just fine."

I could only shake my head at Dunc, who was all smiles for the rest of the walk.

Discovery

Duncan made a discovery in the bushes outside Jeffrey's apartment this morning.

And his discovery looks none too happy for it.

Murder and Mayhem

(AP, Littleton, Colorado)

Terror has returned to this small community once again.

Shortly after dawn this morning, Mayor Curt awoke to find one of its long term residents, Frog, brutally disfigured and disemboweled in the living room. Rogers alerted authorities but after viewing the crime scene, none seemed optimistic about solving the crime.

"It's no wonder," Rogers was quoted as saying. "Two years ago Percy the Penguin suffered a similar fate , being ripped limb from limb. The poor soul never recovered and has been in intensive care ever since." Bah-Bah, our pacifist sheep, was pushed from a balcony and found dead the next morning. Authorities have long suspected that Bah-Bah was pushed as a means of silencing him before he could reveal the identity of Percy's atacker.

Clues to these crimes have been scarce, as Officer Bobster the Lobster, chief detective on the scene reported. "Whoever is committing these atrocities is doing them under cover of darkness while the locals are asleep. No eyewitnesses, no fingerprints, no nuthin'."

The only link between the three victims is their good friend and trusted playmate, Duncan "Roo" Rogers, who claims to have been in bed asleep at the time of the murder. A source close to Mr. Roo says he is beside himself with grief and is too shocked to leave bed and make a statement at this time.

Whether or not Duncan "Roo" is a suspect, Officer Bobster will not say. Rather, he and other members of the police force urge anyone with any information to come forward.

A Fly in the Parlor

Two months ago, when Spring was new and each day felt like an unexpected gift, something to be explored and savored sweetly and with a lazy diligence, I didn't mind the spider webs. They were small things, trifles, barely perceptible as we passed under the budding trees. The spiders were tiny then, barely seen and their webs were little more than a breeze, catching on the scruff of my cheek or the point of my elbow, a tickle that could be brushed away with the back of my hand. But now, like the summer, they have grown bloated and thick, heavy as a thunder cloud, as troubling as lightning.

This morning near the end of our walk, after we'd circled the property, played a quick game of fetch in the park, Duncan and I were headed home when he led me through the wide, grassy area between several of the buildings, thick with trees and low shrubs, where the grass grows tall and squirrels and bunnies hide, leaving only the tips of their tails or translucent ears––golden in the sunlight––visible. He'd spotted a rabbit, small and new and quick to startle, and pulled hard on his leash as it darted under the low boughs of a tall spruce. Dunc followed, dragging me between the sharp needles and the soft leaves of a tall shrub growing next to it. I cried out as he pulled me forward where I could clearly see the thick silver threads of an enormous web, feet wide and as intricately built as lace, glistening with dew, shimmering in the early sun, waiting for me, everything that the playful strands of Spring were not.

There was little I could but close my eyes and mouth as it pulled taut across my nose, then my cheeks, wrapped around my head, catching on my shoulders and tearing––something I could actually hear!––as I passed through it. I felt it catch in my hair, its frayed ends alighting on my shoulders and back. I groaned loudly and pulled Dunc, who'd stepped under the thing, away from the bush he was frantically nosing his way into, across the parking lot toward home where I spent the next five minutes patting myself down, running my fingers through my hair, wiping my face, changing shirts and dancing the heebie jeebies while he watched and waited patiently for his breakfast to be served.

A Right Way to Live

When I Am Among the Trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

(Mary Oliver)

There is a moment, late in a summer's day, not long before the sun sets, when the shadows have grown so long they are like a blanket pulled across the world, when the light through the trees is an overwhelming gold, so vibrant it can be felt, when the birdsong is softening and lulls the crickets and night creatures awake, urging them to join the chorus, when the tips of the tallest, flowering blades of grass catch the precious light among their budding tips and carry it proudly, like lanterns held aloft, that is my favorite time to take Duncan for a walk down The Run to The Glen.

The voice of the trees is a soothing whisper and the cool air rising up from the grass is as rejuvenating as lemonade. Neither of us is in a hurry, which is the best way to walk, and step softly around the brilliantly illuminated wings of the insects which rise up and dance around our ankles before settling down among the thick blades of grass as we pass. The traffic dies down long enough for dinner and the spin of the world seems to relax and stop so that the night is frozen, caught in amber, captured forever in my memory as another perfect evening, the kind I will walk through in dreams many times long days from now.

Surely there is a right way to live, and when I am with Duncan on nights such as this, I'm certain I have found it.

One Thousand Words

My Precious Family

We have been sixteen years in the making, this little family of mine. When I first met Ken he already had Ashley and Nikki, our first Goldens, but soon after I moved in we ventured down to Morton Grove Animal Hospital to adopt Pip and Winnie. Six years later, shortly after coming to Denver Olive joined our family. And then two years after that we added Duncan, who I have spent so many hours writing about.

There is a part of me that feels guilty for not writing more about the others, especially these days, but let's be honest, cats simply don't do as much as dogs. Perhaps they do, but in a different way. Olive would never lead me around the lake to point out a perfect sunflower and Pip would scamper away and hide at the mere suggestion. Only Winnie would be game, but it would be slow as she'd pause far more often than Roo, to roll her cheeks against the warm sidewalk and show her pristine white belly to the sun. She has always been the gentlest of our children but also the most assertive and adventurous. She has stood up to Duncan when he and Pip have played too hard and she certainly won't tolerate Olive's aloof, semi-feral attitude for one moment. She's quick to cuddle, claiming her special spot on my hip each time I settle down long enough for her to notice, but is spirited enough to join me in the shower every morning.

She's my precious Bean and it has been incredibly difficult these past two weeks knowing that she'll soon be leaving us.

The day after I returned from New York we were given the bad news that Winnie Mouse has cancer, untreatable and nasty. We were told we may have a few weeks left to spend with her but no one knows for sure. So the days that followed have been spent playing with her outside, cuddling with her whenever she wants, feeding her special meals, watching her lay in puddles of sunlight, a content smile on her face. Not a moment is being wasted until the time comes for her to embark on her next adventure.

Please think good thoughts for my precious family. And most especially for my little Bean. She is more my girl than Duncan is my boy. I love her with all my heart.

Winners

It has been a busy couple of weeks and I'm only now getting around to sorting through photos of my trip to Upstate New York last week. I meant to do this sooner but life kept being life and things kept coming up.

You may recall that Henry and Thomas, sons of my friend April, were the winners of the Magic Feather Contest. April was kind enough to send some photos of the day they received their prizes. I wanted to share them here because the boys are so darn cute and because this makes me very happy. 

Thanks, kiddo, for brightening my day. I'm glad they enjoyed their prizes. I love you. Be careful.

Life with Duncan

(I'm late to the meme but I couldn't resist)

The Goose

After the sun had set and the cool air seemed to rise up from the grass and hills of the park, Duncan and I ventured out for our first truly enjoyable walk of the day. It has been hot here, very hot, and the air has been tinged with the faint, warm scent of smoke from the fires burning to across the Front Range, especially the big ones to the north and south of us. Mornings have been pleasant but the heat comes too soon and we often find ourselves resting in the shade under one of the big elms at the park, rolling in the grass until we're nice and wet. But last night the park cooled quickly so we took a long, meandering stroll across the soccer fields, through the baseball diamonds and up the hillside overlooking the upper park and the lake, whose level has dropped off from the lack of rain and the searing temperatures.

We were coming down the hillside to investigate the shady spot in the tall grass where the bunnies roost when a man, perhaps in his early thirties, stepped away from his small gathering under the picnic shelter. I assume he'd been drinking for the light wobble in his step and the words I could see him mouthing to himself as he trudges away from his group. He stepped around the line of port-a-potties which have been set up for the girls' softball tournament, and which, under the relentless heat of the day, have begun to smell horrific, like steaming clouds of radioactive green chemicals. I couldn't blame him for choosing to step into the line of tall shrubs rather than open one of those florescent blue doors and step inside.

Duncan saw him too, and no sooner had the man unbuttoned his fly and started watering the bushes, than Roo took off toward him, his propeller tail swishing gaily through the air above him.

"Roo!" I called and hurried after him, uncertain of how close I should actually get to the man, especially in his vulnerable state.

The man evidently didn't hear me and he certainly never saw what was coming. There was nothing I could do to stop Dunc from coming up the hill behind the man and sticking his cool, moist nose squarely against the man's thigh, who cried out, jumped, turned quickly and sprayed a wide arc across the shrubs and all down the front of his khaki cargo shorts.

"Sorry about that," I winced. He turned his back to me and continued about his business while Roo took a seat and waited for the attention he thought he deserved.

"No problems, man," he said, finishing up. "I'd give him a pat but I think I should get washed up first." He gestured at the front of his shorts and held his hands up high in front of him.

Apparently a flying goose isn't the only one Duncan enjoys.

Bad Dream

Winnie was on my hip, where she spends most of every night, her weight soft and warm, her nose tucked into a curled paw. Ken was sleeping next to me, his arm wrapped around Pip, whose purrs nearly matched the snores from his dad. The apartment was silent except for the jangle of ice cubes dropping from the maker in the freezer.

I don't remember the dream but it was terrible enough to jerk me out of sleep, disturbing Winnie, who tensed and lifted her head. The light coming from the lunette above our windows danced across her whiskers and caught her eyes as she watched me, waiting for me to settle back down into more pleasant dreams. My body was rigid and hot and weighted down by the single sheet pulled over me. I took a deep breath trying to calm the tears that felt close to bubbling up and spilling down my cheeks. The nightmare was gone but the fear remained. I laid a long time in the dark, turning over onto my belly, slowly so as not to disturb Bean, who had already dropped her nose down into her paw and was breathing deeply.

Sleep was not coming, not until I heard Duncan shift in his bed, climb out of his kennel, stretch once and then jump up at the foot of the bed. He moved carefully between Ken and me, careful of the cats and Ken, and laid down, his body a long warm pillow between us. He laid down and licked my shoulder, slipping a warm paw across the small of my back. He licked again, quietly and with great care, and rested his head on me, squeezing me with one paw and continued to lick until the feeling passed and sleep took me again.

It is good to know I am watched over and guarded, safe at all hours.

All Aspects of This Life

My walks with Duncan have served as a reminder to me that there is no aspect of this life of ours that is unimportant, from the bending of the grass under the weight of the morning dew to the long shadows cast by the ants scuttling blindly across the pavement as the sun dips low on the horizon. I am as fascinated by the minutiae of the world––maybe more so–– as I am of the breathtaking and extraordinary sights of the big and obvious, the loud and bright. Roo is patient with me, sometimes spending long moments sitting at my side while I lean in to watch the slow crawl of a box elder bug up the trunk of an aspen or the light dancing across a bending field of fuzzy, purple thistles. 

And so it was this morning on our walk. Not far down The Run I spotted the button-cap of a mushroom, sand-dollar shaped and hued, with delicate, fingerprint lines racing from its rim to the bowl of its center. I sat down next to it and peered at it from all angles, but because it was so short, smaller than my pinkie finger, I could not see its underside however hard I tried. Some things, I guess, are to remain a mystery. And that is just fine with me, because what fun would life be without a few questions and surprises.

I must be doing something right by stopping and looking because no sooner had I finished my examination of the thing than Dunc leaned down and gave it a long hard sniff before turning to look at me as if to say, "Good catch. Good boy!"

When he is proud of me I know I've done well.

Coming Home

I have returned home after a week experiencing a life-changing adventure. I learned a lot about myself on my trip to Buffalo and perhaps soon I'll get a chance to share that here. And while there were many highlights, one of the sweetest took place after climbing the thirty-seven stairs to my front door where a newly groomed Duncan was waiting for me, eager to play and pick up right where we left off.

It's good to be home.

A Changed Life

I'm sitting in the rocking chair on the porch outside the home of Karen and Paul, my new aunt and uncle, in Wales, New York, a quiet little township southeast of Buffalo. It is a cool evening, humid but not uncomfortably so. The shadows have grown long and faded under the darkening sky, the deep woods are growing slowly quiet and the frogs down at the pond are just beginning to croak, a sound that is a cross between a duck quack and an electric sneeze. The finned backs of the bass and koi break the surface, stirring the water into expanding ripples around them as they slide forward swallowing the mayflies and mosquitoes which hover in shimmering clouds above the water. A fawn with large white spots on its back was spotted in the long grass at the edge of the backyard and the cat birds, with their mewling kitten calls, are confusing my sister, who insists we are surrounded but countless stray cats. It will be another hour or two before the fireflies appear but I am prepared. It has been a long thirteen years without their magic in my life and I want to be ready for those first plaintive flickers as they emerge from the trees.

Duncan would love this place. He would spend the afternoons in the pond, startling the fish and scattering the frogs. He would chase the deer through the dense foliage and stare in awe at the fireflies. And I would sit back and marvel at each discovery he made. It would be wonderful to have him with me, to feel his weight against my feet when he tired himself out and needed a rest. Not this trip, though, but perhaps one day he will see it, and the smile I've worn since Wednesday would be made a thousand times bigger by his presence.

While I am enjoying my trip more than I ever thought possible, and feel a sense of freedom I have not experienced for the past seven years, I keep thinking of him that last evening in Denver, sticking close to me, aware that something was happening, that I was leaving and for only the second time in his life he was not being included. I sat him down and explained that his papa had spent a long time summoning his courage, inviting the support of the world's most amazing friends, and was embarking on an adventure that was sure to change his life. He seemed to understand, but after I said my farewell to him and stepped downstairs with Ken and my family, I glanced back up at the window and saw his face poking between the blinds, his eyebrows raised in question.

It was heart-breaking but I have to be honest: this trip has changed my life in ways I never anticipated, and although I wouldn't trade my good, red dog for anything in the world, I have been grateful for the opportunities presented to me in exchange for a few days without him.

And when it's over, when Ken and I climb those stairs together on Tuesday, carrying my luggage, my memories of an incredible week in New York, and so much more, I know he, and my entire life, will be waiting for me behind one locked door to which I hold the key.

Away*

Since Ken brought Duncan home seven years ago we have only been apart five nights total, three of them while I was in Atlanta that afternoon when I first got sick. With the exception of two random nights since, we have always been together. I don't know what last night was like for him but I'd like to imagine that he curled up with Ken and the cats and didn't notice my absence at all, that this morning Ken rose early and took him for a nice, long walk in the park and they played away the morning. Nothing would make me happier.

I know what the night was like for me, though. It was spent on a red-eye from Denver to Newark sitting next to my mother, looking out the window at the orange, halogen blobs of lights of unnamed cities rising up and falling away in the darkness below us, thinking of him, feeling everything very clearly, alternately overjoyed and exhausted. I wished he was there with me, resting at my feet waiting to step outside, stretch his legs and resume our walks in whatever place his feet touched down. He would not be picky but excited at the prospect of a new journey, heedless of the destination.

It is strange not having him here, strange seeing other people on the streets of Buffalo walking their dogs. These next few days are ones that won't require me to rise early, put on my shoes, take him outside and look after his every need. But I know he is safe with Ken, probably excited to have the opportunity to coax his dad into giving him more treats than I do, to take advantage of every possible situation, to sneak up on the couch and spend the afternoon sleeping without the risk of being caught by his papa.

When I do return I hope he sees the courage in me, the kind that's been lacking since he was less than a year old. I hope he senses the change in me for facing my long-festering fear and conquering it. I hope he is waiting at the door, the shredded remnants of his favorite toy, the little green frog given to us by one of our blog friends last year, clutched in his smiling mouth, his tail thumping out a sporadic but joyous beat. I hope he will be as happy to see me as I certainly will be to see him.

*This post was written on my brand new iPad from my hotel room in East Aurora, New York. The formatting looks to be all screwy, at least on my end. I apologize if you're seeing one big, long, unjustified, jumbled paragraph. Trust me, that's not how it was written. Bear with me and I'll get everything fixed as soon as I can. In the meantime, does anyone have any suggestions on the best way to blog on an iPad? This obviously is not going to work!

"Hope is the Thing with Feathers..."

The feathers have been collected and are ready for flight. As am I. But before my family arrives and we climb on that plane tonight I wanted to take just a moment and show you the collection I have amassed over the years. They have become so much more than mere feathers to me, but tokens of faith and encouragement from people all over the world, people who know me and love me, who believe in me and want to see me spread my own wings and continue to fly through this little life of mine. They are my talismans and bring me incredible courage and peace of mind when I face challenging situations. I laid them all out for you, each and every one I've received. I hope you're able to spot the one you sent or simply admire the beauty of the collection, the generosity of the community I've built in this little outpost on the internet, and the creativity of the people I love.

I cannot tell you how much your kindness and support have meant to me. I cannot tell you how many tears of joy I've let slip when I read your cards and notes and hold your faith in me in the palm of my hand. I cannot tell you how utterly overwhelmed I have been by the remarkable people who join Duncan and me on our walks.

Each of you, whether you believe it or not, have changed a life for the better, and that is one of the greatest things we can do on this planet.

With all sincerity, with the entirety of my heart and soul, I thank you and love you all.

"A willing heart adds feather to the heel." (Joanne Baillie)

Duncan's Feather

Morning came early, grey but blessedly cool, with grass tall and bending under the weight of an early sprinkle. I woke before Dunc, who whimpered and stretched as I knelt down beside him on my side of the bed where he started sleeping once the weather turned hot. I touched my lips to his cheek and whispered, "Good morning, Roo." His tail thumped twice and his eyes blinked open, his paws reached out and his whole body elongated, thinning and stretching out long across the floor. "Let's go play in the park."

Five minutes later we were crossing the field, me throwing his ball far across the wet grass, Duncan chasing after it with an energy and enthusiasm I was still working on. But watching him dart among the starlings, pecking in the earth for drowsy worms, brought a smile to my face and soon I was running after him, slipping him a treat each time he returned the ball to me. Eventually he lost interest and ambled up the hillside toward the playground. I whistled once but he only paused and looked over his shoulder at me before hurrying forward, ignoring my call. I followed him to where he was sniffing in the grass and looking up at me expectantly, his eyebrows raised, his tail a red flag flapping high above him.

And resting there, damp but perfectly shaped, sharp and as narrow as an arrow, was a single feather, silver and sleek near the quill, the inner vane striping into a soft grey as it fanned out. The outer vane, with its short barbs, were a vivid blue, electric and metallic, crisp and straight which made a buzzing sound when I ran my thumb along them, spraying misty drop of dew into the morning air.

I have never claimed to know what it is he was thinking, but I felt for sure that he was proud of his discovery, that he knew what it meant and how important it was to me, that I would cherish it always.

So I will keep it close to my heart tonight on the plane, in my pocket where I can touch it and find strength in the love and faith of my good, red dog, who knows me better than I know myself. How I ever became so fortunate to have him in my life I will never know.

My Magic Feathers

Yesterday afternoon, after six weeks of collecting feathers sent in by readers from across the country and around the world, all in preparation for my trip to Buffalo on Wednesday night, Duncan finally drew the winning name out of the hat.

And here, at last, is what he drew:

Henry and Thomas are the sons of April, one of the most beautiful people I have ever had the pleasure of calling a friend. It is no surprise that her sons, whom I've only met once, are just as lovely as their mother. They are smart, incredibly funny, sensitive, full of life, and I am very happy Duncan chose their names from the long list of remarkable and generous people who joined together to support me on my journey.

The only trouble is they don't have a dog. April wrote in her card that Henry wants a bulldog named Cedar and Thomas wants a little white dog he can call Hannah. Taking that into consideration I decided that while I was unable to provide them with real dogs, I could send them the next best thing. So here's what they will be receiving in the mail later this week, hopefully on the very day I depart for New York.

The box is loaded with candy, Starbursts and Kit Kats, because they're their favorites, superhero coloring books, colored pencils (because I was afraid crayons would melt in this heat), thank-you cards, and of course, a bulldog for Henry and a spotted white dog for Thomas. They're not the real thing but I figure they can practice and perhaps one day their parents will break down and get them a dog, perhaps a little white bulldog. After all, a boy without a dog is like summer without the sun.

Thank you all for participating in my contest, but mostly for showing me how much you believe in me. And please join me in congratulating Henry and Thomas. They gave me far more than I was able to give them.

Buffalo Wings: The Feathers for Flight Contest Winner is Chosen

This afternoon Duncan was kind enough to put on his favorite hat (actually, it's mine, courtesy of Sue from Random Ramblings, but he agreed to wear it, if for only a moment, in exchange for more than a few treats) and prepare to draw the winner of my Magic Feather Contest.

We printed up the names of all the entrants, those of you who were kind enough to send feathers for my trip to Buffalo, and laid them out on the floor in front of Roo.

Dunc sniffed through them, turned them over with his nose, pawed at a couple and helped verify that everything was in order (and that there weren't any treats taped the bottoms of the names as possible bribes). After everything was checked and double-checked (those pumpkin crunchers can be sneaky little things!) the names were tossed into the hat where he nosed around for a bit, took his time, and made his selection.

And finally, after six weeks of waiting for the feathers to come in, a name was chosen!

And the winner is.....

Come back tomorrow to find out! I'll even show you what the prizes are!

Buffalo Wings: Serendipity with The Shepherds

It has been a very long time since Duncan and I have encountered The Shepherds on our walks so I was surprised this morning to come face to face with them once again, only this time the outcome was completely unexpected.

We were playing fetch on the shady side of the park, staying under the tall elms that grow above the lower soccer field. The morning was hotter than usual and Duncan was feeling it, panting and laying down to roll in the grass clippings. He lost interest quicker than usual and instead became fixated on sniffing out the goodies leftover and discarded in the grass from yesterday's sun-worshippers. Just as I laid down next to him I noticed The Shepherds not far away. We have been respectful and courteous to each other since our showdown that dark night several years ago, keeping far away from each other, nodding politely and leashing our dogs as we pass one another. I leashed Roo and stood up to move away but Duncan, always far wiser than me, turned and trotted right in their direction. When I pulled on his leash and said no, he bore down against me, flashed me a look as though to say, "trust me," and pulled me after him. I was nervous but he has yet to steer me wrong so I followed, reeling in the leash and commanding him to heel as we approached the man and his two dogs.

"Good morning," I called.

Mr. Shepherd leashed his dogs, one of them a dark puppy with enormous feet and a too-big tail, fluffy and black and longer than his body. "Good morning," he replied tentatively. After all, none of our conversations have been positive and he was as nervous as I was.

We made small talk for a bit and I asked about the puppy. All those years ago there had been two mature shepherds but Enzo, the male, died just before Christmas and Bodi, the puppy, was a new gift to his wife. Bodi was playful and loveable, nipping at Duncan's ears and rolling in the grass at his feet, but Jay, the large female, was still aggressive and unsure of our presence.

I don't remember exactly how it came up but Mr. Shepherd said that he'd just returned from Buffalo where he was born and raised.

"I'm going there in a few days!" I exclaimed. He asked if I was from there so I explained about Kevin's father's memorial service and meeting his family and how I'd only passed through Buffalo on a train twenty years ago on a trip to visit April in Boston. He asked if we were planning to visit Niagara Falls, which is where his family now lives.

"Of course!" I said. "We're really excited about it!"

"Oh, that's great. It's a pit, a real shit-hole on the American side," he said, "But you have to stop and eat at Viola's! They have the best sandwiches! Don't get anything except the double steak and cheese. You'll thank me later. And if you have time, go to The Como! They have the best Italian food you'll ever eat!"

"Viola's and The Como," I repeated. "Got it!"

"And be sure to try beef on a weck. And don't shy away from the horseradish!"

We talked for nearly an hour about Buffalo and Niagara Falls and then about our dogs, all of whom were laying in the grass, Duncan minding his own business, Bodi still struggling to latch onto one of Roo's ears, and Jay batting at our shadows on the ground. We laughed and exchanged stories and shook hands when it was time to go. I still didn't get his name but I'm sure we'll meet again, next time under far better circumstances than in the past.

It felt good walking home afterward, grinning ear to ear, which puzzled Ken, who was sitting on the patio sipping his coffee and watching us when we arrived home. I explained the story to him and we both marveled at how The Universe has a way of giving us what we need exactly when we need it. Forgiveness, like feathers, come in the most surprising shapes, at surprising times.

Pride

No matter who you are, what you believe, or who you love, be proud.

HAPPY PRIDE DAY!*

*Thanks to Lisa Davidon-Tartar for the inspiration behind this photo!