No Good Deed

It was late when Ken got home last night, well after midnight. I'd fallen asleep as I always do, on the couch watching Netflix, with one or more cats cuddling against me, and Duncan snoring softly from beneath the coffee table. The storm had departed but not before depositing a nice pocket of cool air above our corner of the world and I'd flung open the windows and patio doors and arranged our collection of tall and narrow or short and squat fans to pull that air inside and chase away the heat that had lulled me to sleep.

Duncan knows the sound of Ken's truck well and is quick to jump up, give me an excited kiss––more like a brush of his nose against my cheek, really––to wake me up, and then hurry to the door where he plops down, his rear end wiggling under him while he chirps and coos softly awaiting  the familiar sound of the key in the lock. Last night was no different, and while Ken took Dunc down for his last walk of the night, I readied his dinner and waited for them to return.

Fifteen minutes later the door opened and Ken asked, "There's a little dog––a collie puppy––just sitting outside our door. She seems to know Duncan. Do you know her?"

Apparently they'd gone downstairs and the puppy had appeared from out of the darkness, playing with Duncan and following them for a bit until she scampered away, her human companion never appearing. When Ken and Roo climbed the thirty-seven stairs to our door, she was sitting there patiently waiting for them.

When I opened the door and peeked out she was still sitting there. She jumped up and wiggled happily at the sight of me. "Joy!" I cried and opened the door. "What are you doing out so late?" She leapt past me, danced around Dunc then jumped up for a treat. I was very familiar with Joy, a miniature Border Collie who lives in the building across from us. And she knows me well, too. Each time I see her she drags her two-legged companion, Bridgett, across the way to visit with me and snap up the treats I'm more than willing to hand out. I'd never seen her off-leash and without Bridgett and was immediately worried.

"Do you know where she lives?" Ken asked.

"Somewhere in the next building," I told him as I moved out onto the patio to look for any signs of Bridgett. It wasn't long before I saw a car gliding slowly through the parking lot and knew it's occupant was looking for a lost dog.

I hurried into my shoes and socks and skipped down the stairs to intercept her as she passed. She was sitting behind the wheel of her car, sobbing hysterically but pulled over and hugged me when I told her we had Joy safe upstairs. It was quite obvious she was very drunk and it took awhile to follow her up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. She burst into a fresh round of tears when she saw Joy, who seemed far more interested in the treats Ken was still handing out, and Olive and Pip, who had gathered behind the couch to peer out at her, their bodies and faces concealed in the shadows but their eyes wide and curious at our unexpected guests.

It took some doing but eventually they departed, after more sobbing, some slight staggering, and more than a little careful negotiating of the stairs. If they lived any further than one-hundred feet away I would have driven the car for her, but she managed just fine. Joy was home safe, Bridgett was happy, and Ken and I didn't get to bed until after two in the morning. Duncan remained indifferent to the entire episode, more content with the company of people than dogs, and stayed under the coffee table out of the way of Joy's ecstatic energy.

The cats, however, took more convincing. They were a long time in coming out from behind the couch and needed to inspect every inch of the apartment before they were content that the adventure had passed them by safely. And by the time they came to bed they were more than convinced that it was time for breakfast.

Needless to say, it'll be an early night for me, and hopefully there won't be any more midnight surprises.

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Wisdom

Dark Clouds and Courage

The first crack of thunder came just after we stepped outside. When I'd leashed Duncan up the sun had been shining at the front of the apartment but once we'd stepped outside I discovered it was no longer doing so on the back side. The sky had turned dark, the clouds had swept in, some of them low while other stayed very high, and the wind was pulling the yellow Linden leaves from the trees and was making them dance haphazardly across the parking lot. Dunc stopped dead in his tracks at the low rumble and then turned to look at me. "It's your call," I told him. "But I want you to know you're safe. I'll whistle you a song to listen to while you ignore the sky and everything that's happening up there and look at the grass and the little bugs that dance above it. And that's how we'll keep you safe." He took a moment to decide what to do and then slowly took a step forward.

And that's how we found our way down to the patch of flowers at the end of the property. While a dark cloud formed and hovered over our building and the trees swayed sometimes violently across out path, Duncan kept his nose to the ground while I whistled a Nina Simone song I often find myself whistling on rainy days.

And each time the thunder shook the ground and the heavens I whistled louder for him. His footsteps picked up and even though we were trotting by the time we reached the bright pink and purple and yellow and orange flowers he seemed relieved to find them there waiting for him. Soon the first warm drops began to smatter the sidewalk but Duncan did not mind because his face was buried deep among their welcome and comforting hues. I smiled and thought, "That's what you do when you're afraid. You press on, you whistle a little song, and you keep your head low to the ground."

He made it through the walk and I'm still smiling, still marveling at his courage, loving him more than I did an hour ago.

To:

Ken,

I was on the patio last night, Duncan curled at my feet, when the wind picked up. It began without even a breeze. The Lindens did not rustle and stir and the chimes hanging above us did not sway softly and release their few precious notes in preparation. One moment the world was quiet and warm; the next the trees were bending and bowing to the voice of a cold wind that frightened away the clear sky and turned our peaceful patio into a clanging discordant symphony of bamboo and aluminum bars. Duncan jumped up to see what was happening, whining at the sight of the bunnies below scattered among the tall grass, scampering across the parking lot, dodging bouncing leaves and twigs as they sought shelter under the shrubs. But then you were home and Duncan chirped and danced and we took him for a walk, the three of us navigating the night, safe and happy, together.

This morning, with you still sleeping, the blankets pulled up around your chin, the fan in the window blowing cold air into the bedroom, I slipped on my sneakers and a hoodie and took Duncan to the park to play. The parking lot was wet from a night of steady rain and the puddles reflected the cloudy sky above. The world was sweet-smelling, like pea pods plucked from the vine, and as quiet as a December night. We crossed Bowles and walked the wet grass at the park. I'd brought Dunc's squeaky ball but he seemed far more interested in the branches that had fallen from the elms and cottonwoods during last night's storm. But he stayed close and nuzzled my hand for the treats he knows I hold there whenever we venture out.

It was a lovely morning and I wished I'd coaxed you from bed to join us but you were breathing so deeply and your eyes were moving slowly back and forth under your closed lids so I kissed your warm cheek instead and left you to your dreams, hoping they were as lovely as the day.

The sky was sparingly blue but the clouds, rolling in on stripes of grey and darker grey, didn't seem in the least bit ominous. No, they were like a blanket, the kind you were smiling into when I kissed you, and they were kind enough to allow the sun to peek out and turn the cold morning suddenly hot, forcing me to take off my hoodie and tie it around my waist while Duncan sought relief by rolling in the wet grass until his hair was matted and dark. And then the rain started. Not a rain like last night, not loud and steady, but lazy and quiet, and each drop, illuminated by the sun, was pure gold. Duncan and I stood a long time at the edge of a cracked sidewalk that had been swallowed by a large puddle and watched the infrequent honeyed drops strike the surface, sending up golden ripples that barely shook the reflection of the sky above. The sidewalk, wet and silver, spread out before us and wound away in the distance and I felt like this day contained every possibility imaginable. Warm sun and golden rain all at once. It was like walking in a dream and I thought, "You are dreaming and perhaps in that dream you are walking a resplendent sterling sidewalk when up ahead you spot a golden dog and his friend, both smiling at you and waiting for you, and the music of the rain's patter in the quiet of the world is the sweetest sound you've heard."

I hope your dream was as lovely as this morning. I'm sure it was.

We have a long journey ahead of us, and there will be as many cracks and puddles as there will be glorious clear skies and sunny afternoons. And that's okay. I wouldn't have it any other way. The journey is where the magic happens.

Monsoon Season

It has not been an easy couple of weeks, for Duncan or for me, and I now understand more than ever why he prefers Winter to Summer.

In addition to the Independence Day holiday, which dragged on for five miserable days, the monsoon season has returned to the Front Range in full force. When Ken and I first moved here we scoffed at the idea of a "monsoon season" but summer soon proved to be a far wetter season than we anticipated. Each day dawned bright and clear, sweet-smelling and warm, with fat drops of dew bending each and every blade of grass, but by mid-afternoon the skies in the north would turn treacherously dark and ominous and bleed southward, and the thunder would echo off the mountains, reverberating across the plains. Soon the wind would pick up and the tornado watches and warnings would start, and we'd find ourselves in a torrential downpour that rivaled the storms we'd experienced in the green Shire-like Midwest. It was a blessing because the clouds shielded us from the brightest sun of the day and by evening, at dinner time, the birds would resume their flutterings and the mourning doves would reclaim their lookout on the eves, lowing softly as the sky swept clear and the cool of a perfect evening returned.

It has been several years since the monsoon season has been as severe as this year. I used to look forward to afternoon storms but in the past couple of years Duncan's anxiety at loud noises has increased and I find myself tending to and reassuring him more than anything else. The Fourth was loud and explosive and sent him running to the bathroom to seek shelter in the tub. The following four days traumatized him with the remainder of the bottle rockets and firecrackers and then the nightly storms. It has been so terrible that he's refused to go out at all. Where he used to jump and dance and chirp at the mention of the word "walk" he now cowers under the table, and when I do manage to get his leash on him he refuses to walk, except in the mornings, when the world is at its most quiet. Walking down The Run has turned into a frustrating exercise as he continuously attempts to seek shelter in each of the breezeways of the buildings we pass and the things that used to bring him great pleasure, like chasing Ziggy and the squirrels, visiting with Jeffrey, dancing below Soldier's patio, are now ignored in favor of staying right by my side, startling and stopping at the sound of a golf ball being hit on the course behind us. He is miserable and it's all I can do to keep him calm. His Thundershirt and CS Drops, which I also take for my own anxiety, help, but he is not himself and I am beginning to miss him terribly.

So I lay with him under the coffee table, my head resting on his belly, one paw cradled in my hand, and whisper to him, stroke his ear, slip him treats and tell him how brave he's being, how safe he is. And together we wait for the storms to pass, for the mourning doves to resume their tranquil song.

Humans on Board: While Driving Duncan

And now, I present Duncan's big summer adventure: Humans on Board.

Enjoy!

This Day

One year ago today I wept because my life was changed forever by simply putting one foot in front of the other and seeing where my journey led me.

This morning when the Supreme Court struck down the indefensible Defense of Marriage Act, I wept again because the lives of millions of LGBT people in this country have been changed for the better.

Who knows where I'll be a year from now, but that's the wonder of life. You never know what magic it will throw at you and how transformed you'll be by simply vowing to keep moving forward.

Always move forward.

The Second Day of Summer

I love waking early, especially on weekends, when there's no need to leave my pillow, my blanket of cats, or the soft snorings of Ken and Duncan. Because it was cool last night, the windows remained open and a cacophony of perfumes have crowded into my little space, a collection that wakes me better than even the smell of the tea that simmers in my mug: the fading Russian Olive, the long grass––wet and bent––that rises along the edge of the golf course, the green depth of the pines and junipers, the first powdery, sweet traces of the Lindens. On mornings like this you will find me standing alone in the living room, my eyes closed, my head tilted back, just breathing, long and slow, with perhaps a faint smile curling the corners of my mouth.

Duncan and I walk quietly in the mornings, moving from one shady spot to the next, where the light is scarce and the grass underfoot is still dark, the drops of dew catching my ankles and gathering up Dunc's skinny legs like silver, iridescent ticks, fat and undulous with each step he takes. I wish I knew the names of all the birds that sing around us for I would construct a collection of their dawn songs and the way they muffle and echo across the wide fields: the robin, the chickadee––which I like to mimic––, the meadowlark, the sad lowing of the mourning dove. On cool mornings the air-conditioners are blessedly silent and each line and note of the bird chorus is clear and crisp, a garden of sound as rich as any planted in the earth.

After playing in the park, tossing the ball in the shade of the cottonwoods, greeting each of the workers who know Duncan by name and wave at me as they drive past in their little carts on their way to adjust the sprinklers or repaint the baseball diamonds, after rolling in the wet grass, we headed home, the sun higher than when we'd arrived. On the edge of the street, the curb before us, I paused to watch a single sparrow chase a hawk away from its nest. The hawk hardly noticed, content to spin slowly on the thermals rising up from the golf course, its wings fanned out wide, barely flapping as it rose higher and higher and coasted in the blue. The sparrow was frantic, though, flapping and calling furiously, diving and bouncing off the larger bark brown body of the indifferent hawk. On and on it went and I stood a long time until their silhouettes were lost in the glare of the sun and the traffic on Bowles began to pick up, drowning out the birds and the chikka-chikka-chik of the sprinklers behind us. There was some sort of metaphor there, I'm sure, but I didn't care to ponder it and thought only of getting home where I could enjoy the last of the Russian Olives and the tease of Linden outside my window, where a single hummingbird graces me with its presence at the feeder on my patio, where Roo could eat his breakfast and then rest his chin against my foot.

One Year Ago

A year ago tonight I was sitting in East Aurora, New York, surrounded by new family and friends, marveling at the distance I had traveled the night before, writing on my new iPad, wondering what Duncan was doing in my absence. It was the first night in years I had been without him near me, and only the sixth in our shared time together.

It was a long road getting there and one I have not taken for granted in the three-hundred, sixty-five days since. It started in Atlanta, when my anxiety first manifested on a business trip and continues to this day. But the real turning point was the morning Duncan presented me with his magic feather, when I kissed Ken farewell at the airport, and climbed aboard that red-eye flight to Buffalo. That was the night I finally understood how much control I had over my fear, that anything is truly possible if we work hard enough for it and believe in ourselves, and if we have the company of a good dog at our side to share in the journey.

And of course there were all the magic feathers sent to me by people across the country and from around the world who believed in me even when I doubted myself. I do not know whether I could have made that journey without their support and encouragement and faith. And I just want you to know that I remember, that I am still thankful for the gift you gave me, that there is not a day I haven't drawn strength from your generosity and kindness.

Thank you all. You got me there and back and have walked in my heart every time Duncan and I have ventured out since.

On This Day

I am officially on vacation but despite the feeling of laziness that crept into my bones late last night there are things that needed tending to at work and at home: from my annual evaluation to the laundry and chores, the packing to the prepping for the traditional road trip video. I've been very busy and even thought it's 11PM now I just realized I forgot to eat dinner. Duncan has been sprawled out on the patio diligently gnawing at his dinosaur bone, trying hard to distract himself from what he recognizes as the familiar signs of a very long day in the car tomorrow. I have been running back and forth, tripping over the cats, who decided that tonight was the perfect night to become even more affectionate than they already are. It's been a hectic day, but not so hectic that I failed to notice that this happened:

The Russian Olive behind the apartment came into bloom. While the flowers are still small, their fragrance is anything but. I've had the windows open and even while tending to the myriad chores that need tending to before we depart for Idaho in the morning, I have stopped often, caught up in the sweet fragrance, and stood still in the living room, just breathing and letting memories wash over me.

It has been glorious. And it happened today, the first official day of vacation.

Life couldn't be better.

Groomed

I have been trying to prepare Duncan for today for the past week, ever since I made the appointment with the groomer to get him all handsome for our trip to Idaho and his visit with Grandma. He doesn't like the groomer––the driers frighten him––so I knew it was going to be a difficult afternoon. Before we left I even gave him a shot of Valerian root to calm him down but he's smart and the instant we arrived he wasn't happy with the situation. So I sat with him a moment, reassured him that Papa would never leave him, that I would always come back for him, gave him a treat, a kiss on the nose, and stood to leave. His whole body was shaking and he started screaming––screaming!––when I turned away. His groomer is a perfectly nice woman and her business has very high marks on Yelp! so I wasn't afraid for him or concerned about his safety. I just know how much he hates the roar of the driers and being away from me.

And I'll be honest, it was just as difficult for me. I had tears in my eyes by the time I got to the car and talked to myself all the way home. "He's going to be okay. He's safe and it'll be over before we know it." Suffering from anxiety as I do, I understand the feeling, that all-over body fear, and I hated that I was doing it to him, just so he could look good.

But a few hours later I went back to pick him up and all was well with the world. They'd loved him, said that once I was out the door he calmed down and was a perfect gentleman. They're good people and I appreciate the job they do, but I appreciated having him back even more.

I'd promised him a trip to Hero's for a treat if he was good, so that was the first place we stopped on our way home. I told him to pick out anything he wanted, so of course he headed straight to the bones. The big ones. He grabbed an enormous Boo Lannie, a bone named after Chelsea's dogs, Boo and Lannie. Patty, the woman who makes them, is someone I actually introduced to Hero's several years ago when she was in nursing school and I was still at the college bookstore. She eventually stopped being a nurse and dedicated herself to producing high quality pet treats from local Colorado suppliers. You can read about her on her website, Patty's Patties. 

Duncan couldn't wait to get home to devour his treat but consented to a quick stop at The Glen to roll in the grass and pose for a picture or two to show off his fancy new look. But once we were done with that he was ready to get to work on his new bone.

He loves his bone but he loves being home even more. And in a few days, when my mother is slipping him treats and suckers, and playing with him in the yard among her flowers, he'll love it even more.

Hunting in the Park (A Nearly Wordless Wednesday Post)

Carving a Trail Through Spring

After all our waiting, after the exquisite tease of a lingering winter and the slow delight of a reluctant Spring, I must finally concede that the blossoms are not coming, not this year. Diligently, on each of our walks––whether early in the morning when the grass is still wet and cradles diamonds of dew on the curve of their thick blades, or afternoon when the clouds roll in and rumble but rarely release any moisture, or our after-dinner runs through the park, dodging the myriad buzzing, hovering things that force me to squint and purse my lips––we have watched the trees, especially the crab apples, which are so fragrant, for the tiniest sign of their delicate pink and white flowers, and at the end of each walk we're forced to admit defeat. There are no flowers and there is no evening perfume to bask in while sipping cold beverages and watching the moon drift across the sky.

"It was the snow in May," Ken told me this morning while we sat on the patio, Duncan curled up between us, his nose hanging through the railing so he could watch the other dogs and their human companions passing by down below. Ken was sipping his coffee while I danced a tea bag in a cup of hot water, both of us looking out on the trees, resplendent in their new coat of green but without the flowery finery that usually graces them this time of year.

"And it's been cold at night," he added and squeezed patted my knee reassuringly.

But then, this afternoon, walking the perimeter of the property with Duncan, watching the cotton drift down from the cottonwoods––the good ones, not the terrible and inconvenient ones that plague this corner of the world––I spotted a single bunch of pink petals hanging onto a low branch of a young and gangly tree. I hurried to it, buried my nose in it but sadly did not smell a single thing. But that was fine because just to see it was worthwhile and made our cold and windy May bearable.

The Russian Olives and Lindens are slowly filling in, and if the Universe is willing they will redeem our dreadful, colorless and bland Spring, and bring the kind of smile to my face that lasts for weeks. Until then, though, the grass is high and Duncan and I have done our best to carve a trail through it. While he loses himself among the high blades I hold my open palms above them and caress each tip as we pass, humming a made-up song to myself, delighting in the give of the earth beneath my feet, the sound of a breeze running alongside us. Flowers would be nice, but carving a trail through the grass is a wondrous thing. Tame it early and it will carry you the rest of the year.

Spring has returned.  The Earth is like a child that knows poems. (Rainer Maria Rilke)

A Scourge of Seeds

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 are few things more wondrous than a tree in Springtime, when it seems to move without moving, to grow and change in the span of an eye-blink. They are living statues, rejoicing so obviously under the tender ministrations and delicate kisses of the new sun. They speak a language only understood by the birds and flowers and insects, and yet one needs only gaze upon them and listen for a few moments to learn the melody they sing so surely with their silent voices. While Duncan tends to walk with his nose and eyes to the ground, my gaze is pointed up, at the dancing tendrils of the willows, at the slowly blooming Russian Olives, at the Linden outside my window that will transform entirely my apartment in a few short weeks. I am in awe of the trees––all trees!––even the scourge of Narrow Leaf Cottonwoods that plague my small corner of the world.

I do not hate them. These cottonwoods, different than the more common Eastern Cottonwood that most people easily recognize, are wonders of Summer, reflecting the light in a way that freckles the world in gold and shade and dancing green shadows, cooling The Run on our afternoon walks. They are never still, even when the air is, and the sound of their leaves brushing against each other are as sweet as the soft twinkling of the chimes that grace my patio. They don't grow as tall as their eastern cousin, and their cotton is fine and beautiful and something I marvel at and don't mind at all. In Autumn they are magnificent, their voices loud, their presence soothing as the leaves turn pale yellow and then fall away where they can dance wild and run in the wind. They are the sentinels of winter, standing guard over the park and The Glen, their pale, rough bark catching the snow and holding it close like a drapery of loose gauze. It is only in Spring that they are a challenge.

It's their seeds I loathe. They are everywhere, impossible to avoid: lurking among the tall grass, polluting the sidewalks as thickly as the spattering of goose-droppings we dodge in winter. They are thorough in their infection of both The Glen and the park. Long and yellow, the seeds are covered in a thick and sickeningly sweet resin that catch the hair of Duncan's feet and collect into a sticky clot under his soft pads. Dunc spends much of our walks laying down to nibble at his feet, pulling on them, tearing the fur from his feet and then sputtering to spit them away before they catch in his whiskers and collect along his muzzle. And once he's done, his belly is covered in the things, which, if left untended, turn into twisted mats that need to be cut away. They are miserable, contagious things and I look forward to the day they have dried up and been carried away by the wind.

They are a nuisance, but only temporarily. In a few weeks they will be gone and the trees where they originated will be more glorious than before. Until that day, though, when they snow magic and bring a warm winter, Duncan and I will tread carefully and await the return of our Lindens and glorious-scented Russian Olives.

Look to the Trees

Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment. (Ellis Peters)

Yesterday on our first walk, while Duncan paused to sniff in the bushes for Oliver, the Siamese kitten who has only just been allowed to begin exploring the world outside of his patio, I stopped to look at the Linden tree that grows right below my window. Only a few furls of green dotted the dark branches, bright and new, damp with morning dew. Last year at this time the entire tree was adorned and was threatening to unleash its magnificent flowers nearly two months ahead of schedule. Linden is Latvian for July, which is when the tree blooms, painting the bleached, bone-white dog days with bright yellow blossoms and filling my apartment with one of my favorite scents. This year, however, Spring is running behind schedule and the greening has been slow but agonizingly exquisite.

This morning when we ventured out, Duncan again stopped to investigate for signs of the elusive Oliver, and I caught my breath at the sight of the very same tree rising up out of the shrubs, its uppermost branches brushing against my window. It had erupted in leaves, and yesterday's tiny moth wings of green were now flags, bright with certainty against the morning blue.

The same thing happened at The Glen.

In twenty-four hours the Narrow Leaf Cottonwoods (the scourge of my existence) had exploded with leaves, and they aren't done yet. By this afternoon they were even more full and the air was sweet in the way I've been yearning for since September when Autumn became an inevitability and the leaves began to drop in great depressing clumps.

Each Spring is a precious thing, and each time I walk through it I feel as though I am witnessing it for the first time, and appreciate it as though it could be my last. There is no time of year when I feel more alive, more connected to the world. Every morning and every afternoon bring the kind of delight I remember from childhood Christmas mornings. Anything feels possible and everything seems attainable.

What a difference a single day can make, and if you ever doubt that you need only look to the trees on a Spring day.

It's spring fever.  That is what the name of it is.  And when you've got it, 

you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, 

but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! (Mark Twain)

The Flowers (A Nearly Wordless Wednesday Post)

While I occasionally rush our morning walk, Duncan is always very good at reminding me about what's really important in this life we share.

To be overcome by the fragrance of flowers is a delectable form of defeat.  (Beverly Nichols)

Master of the Game

I have been working on a game with Duncan. In short, I hold a treat in one hand for him to see, then pass it very obviously back and forth from one hand to the other, moving slowly so he can follow along. After a couple of passes I fold my palm up around the treat, hold both hands out for him to see and ask which hand the treat is in––a very rudimentary version of the shell game. While he is very good at picking a hand, he isn't so good at selecting the correct one.

We were sitting on the hillside in The Glen this morning, the sun already high and warm, the grass cool under us, practicing the game. After several attempts at picking the wrong hand I could see he was getting frustrated so I moved slower and even more obvious than before. When it came time to pick a hand, he once again selected the wrong one, sighing and harumphing as he does when the treat eludes him once again. But he is not the kind of dog to grow discouraged so I decided we'd go again.

This time though, when it came time to pick a hand, he surprised me. Once both my hands were held out in front of him, he leaned back and with both paws chose both hands at once. As I was about to laugh he leaned in, slobbered me with a big wet kiss right across my nose and both eyes, knocking me back. Both palms came open at once and while I was falling backward, he leaned in and slurped up the waiting treat. By the time I righted myself he was sitting in front of me calmly, licking the last of the crumbs from his chin, grinning ear to ear, his tail wagging.

Clearly he's mastered my little game.

Bliss

Anticipation is the greater part of pleasure. (Angela Carter)

I love Spring. I love that first perfect weekend when flower boxes seem to demand to be filled with golden pansies, pink snapdragons, and the soft purple of delicate violas. I love the slow greening of the grass and the even slower budding of the trees. I love the explosion of color and the tremendous perfume that fills my morning and evening walks, when the world is quiet and the light is soft. I love the feeling of sunshine on my bare knees and the perpetual squint I wear when we walk into it. I love Spring like I love my memories of childhood, like I love the flavor of peach iced tea, like the dusty yellow blossoms of the Russian Olive trees. If I could find a place of perpetual Spring, with a constant unfolding of riches and rediscovered glories, I could retire there and spend the rest of my days the happiest of men.

But this evening, while making the long drive home across Denver, and then again on my walk with Duncan, I realized that perhaps it is not Spring I cherish so much but the anticipation of it. Our trees are still naked; the first leaves are only now––after three well-earned days of warmth and golden light––beginning to unfurl, their tips moist and shiny like the wings of a newly-hatched butterfly. The air is not yet filled with those fragrances for which I spend my year yearning. Spring has been slow to come, teasing us with hours, and only occasionally a day or two, of genuine brilliance, and has instead played coy behind rain and snow clouds, low grey skies and chilly winds that hardly compliment the season. It has been an early-November spring, the crags of the branches dark and empty against the sky. But now it is here, there is no denying it, and part of me can't help but wish it would never come continue to tease and build, retreat and tease again.

We have spent weeks riding the cusp of Spring, our anticipation growing every day, our dreams unfolding around us. But now she has arrived, we have teetered, finally, away from winter and the promise of summer stands directly in our path. I have relished this slow awakening and want for it to go on and on without end.

With the sky as blue as it was today, and the grass as tall and new and soft around my ankles, how I could want anything else? How could anyone?

Waiting, if you know how to do it right, is bliss.

All Seasons

I have looked at the weather forecast, and while it won't be as nice as I'd like there should be just enough sunshine and warmth to finally coax a green aura from our trees. With any luck this time next week Duncan and I will be walking through all the glory of a Spring we here on the Front Range have more than earned.

March and April are our snowiest months and it's not unheard of to get snow in May, but there was something a little disheartening about the amount of snow and cold we got on May Day, when we should have been picking flowers. Duncan, of course, was ecstatic though, running in circles through the stuff, rolling in it and snorting it while I marveled at his exuberance. It was short-lived however, because a day later it was as though nothing had happened.

For instance, this was a photo I took in the park on May 1st:

And then the same patch of sidewalk, with the same tree twenty-four hours later:

You would think Dunc, who loves winter as much as I love the sun and his dad, wouldn't have been as happy as I was. But Duncan loves this world and this place we call home in all seasons, for whatever it sends our way. He is not picky for he knows that life is wondrous and marvelous and beautiful at all times.

Sunshine dancing on the tips of blades of grass are just as sweet to him as the falling flakes that tickle his nose.

May Day

I'm not sure exactly when the snow started––sometime between when I pulled the blinds and climbed into bed and 5:30 this morning when Pip crawled under the covers and curled up against my chest while Olive perched above me and mewed into my ear, a plaintive, hungry sort of sound that was supposed to summon me from my pillow to make her breakfast. We've been sleeping with the windows open lately, and although they weren't open last night, I'd forgotten to turn the heat on so the apartment was cold. I wrapped myself in a blanket while I stumbled around in the early morning dim, the cats dancing at my feet in anticipation of food. When I pulled the blinds I had to squint into the brightness of the snow and the brilliant white light of the low clouds.

May Day here in Denver. A day that should have found us suffocating under the fragrance of fistfuls of flowers but instead welcomed us with January weather––cold and wet and white and nearly heartbreaking.

At first the snow, sticking to the grass and trees while refusing to settle more than a few seconds on the walkways and road, didn't seem like much. But it was wet, and as Duncan and I walked through it I knew we'd be getting the five to seven inches predicted last night on the news. We trudged along, snow falling down the collar of my shirt, piling up on Roo's back. The robins were still out, clamoring across the parking lot and in the yards, pecking at the worms which had made the mistake of climbing above ground in countless, writhing droves. They squawked loudly as we neared, hopped away until we passed and then resumed their breakfast. Duncan didn't seem interested in the birds or the snow, which is odd, but it was nice to hurry home, where the heat had been turned on and my tea was waiting, steaming in my mug.

By the time I got home ten hours later, though, it was different. The birds had scattered, the snow had piled up high, bending the branches of the trees, and Duncan couldn't wait to get out into it. He danced and whined and jumped while I changed my shoes, grabbed my gloves and scarf and prepared to venture out. And once we were at the park and he was off-leash, he ran and rolled like it was the first snow of the season rather than the last. We had the park to ourselves, which is one of my favorite things. We chased each other, kicked up clouds of wet snow, cracked the quiet with our whoops and hollers and barks, and delighted in marring the pristine blanket for any latecomers foolish enough not to venture out.

I do not like the snow and cold. I do not like heavy socks and boots, coats and scarves. I'm a lover of Spring and Summer, color, brilliant sunshine, and the glory of the Lindens and Russian Olives. But when I watch Roo, when I see his delight and the look on his face, I sometimes think I could live that way forever with him, witnessing and participating in the celebration that is his life.

Dogs make everything worthwhile. Better than that, even. They make everything magical.

Glasses (A Wordless Wednesday Post––On a Tuesday)