A Changed Heart, a Necessary Sadness

It is no secret that I prefer Spring and Summer over Autumn and Winter. As the season warms and the world greens, I have always felt my spirit change––a thrumming in my blood and bones and a calming to my ever-racing thoughts––as the leaves unfurl on the trees and the blossoms emerge from their brown, bark cocoons, their sweet fragrance wafting across the fields and into my open windows. And then in the fall, when the world turns orange and red, and a perpetual sunset seems to hover over us, a necessary sadness overtakes me with the realization that the birds have fallen silent and the tufts of dandelion and cottonwood snow are an eternity away.

This year I have kept my eye on a single maple leaf that hangs directly in our path when we walk down The Run. Sometime in June a six-legged critter, possibly one of the fat green caterpillars that I marvel at, paused on its journey and snacked a heart-shaped hole into its perfect surface. That shape became a symbol of the joy that overtakes me each Spring, of the love I feel for the season. I have watched it daily, reached with my hand to gently push it out of my way and peer through the heart at the blue sky and green cottonwoods on the other side. I have fallen in love with that lone leaf and have watched for it each and every time Duncan and I have ventured outside on our walks.

This past week, when the weather turned consistently cold and the wind found its bite, I have watched it yellow and then turn orange. This morning I discovered that most of its sibling leaves had been pulled free of their mooring and lay scattered on the ground at our feet. While Duncan peered in Jeffrey's window for a sign of the cats he loves to play with, I rushed forward to check on my leaf with its heart-shaped hole. My stomach dropped, my mind raced. I should have plucked it free and taken it home to keep with me always as a reminder of these days and these walks Dunc and I have shared. When I finally found it, I ran my thumb across its surface and watched it flutter in the wind, its skin, once thick and juicy, now brittle and dry as an old woman's foot. I wanted to pull it loose but then changed my mind and decided to let it be, to allow the wind to carry it at the time of its choosing, at the moment it was destined to fall, flying briefly, rejoicing in a sudden and exhilarating freedom before the hand of gravity pulled it to its final resting spot. Such a simple decision, and one most people would regard as unnecessary, but it took all my will power to let it go, to look back one more time not knowing if I would see it again. And while Duncan ran blissfully across the park, rolling his face against the stiff, frosted grass, my mind kept wandering back to the maple, back to its fate, and that necessary sadness claimed me once again.

There is a fierce wind out tonight, loud and cold and tireless. The branches are beating against each other like old enemies and while Duncan lays curled up at my feet, his chin resting so gently against and warming the top of my foot, my thoughts are out there in the dark, worrying for my heart, wondering if it will still be there in the morning.




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Dance

We have had frost and then Indian Summer, and then snow and a second sweet Indian Summer again, with the grass still green but crisp, the leaves––orange and gold and amber––still clinging to the boughs and branches, their silhouettes perfect against the early evening sunset, as they should be at this time of year. The air is cool on our walks but heavy with the fragrance of tired, brown earth, and the steadily falling and drifting Autumn quilt from above.

Autumn is not my favorite time of year, but it is rich with poetry and magic.

This evening I watched a timid and delicate breeze, maple-scented and playful, pluck a single leaf from the ground, spin it around on its invisible axis, and flutter it across our path, flapping it like the wings of a golden butterfly in the last rays of the sun. Duncan stopped, his ears perked high, and watched for the emergence of a mouse or one of the small birds that like to dart from the shrubs, flapping a moment before his dancing nose before hurrying for cover among the deep shadows of the trees. When no creature appeared, he seemed content, as I was, to witness the mystery and delight of the season and relish something far beyond his comprehension.

At moments like these I wonder if it would be wrong to have the power to explain it to him, or if it would be a blessing to see it through his eyes, to watch without question or hope of explanation, and simply experience it.

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: Duncan's Commercial Promos for Hero's Pets Part 1

Last Summer Chelsea at Hero's Pets asked if Duncan and I wanted to make more commercials for her store. Two months later the results are finally in. Unfortunately I can't post all three spots in a single post so there are two more following this.

Duncan and I make only the briefest of appearances in this first commercial so be sure to watch the other two.

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: Duncan's Commercial Promos for Hero's Pets Part 2

Here's the second promo Duncan and I did for Hero's Pets last summer. We play a much bigger part in this one but be sure to watch all three. And be sure to let the good people at Hero's (my friends) know how great you think they are!

(Nearly) Wordless Wednesday: Duncan's Commercial Promos for Hero's Pets Part 3

Here's the longest of the three promos Duncan and I filmed for Hero's Pets last summer.

Be sure to visit their website, stop by if you're in the area, or give them a call to let them know what you think. Hero's is Dunc's favorite place in the world. Make it yours, too.

Where's the Waldo?

Can you spot the fresh, warm goody someone was inconsiderate enough to leave behind after their dog tended to its Big Job?

Neither could I. And I and my new shoes are most perturbed, thankyouverymuch.




Not leaving a comment is almost as inconsiderate as the mess I wandered into this morning. So be a chum and say something nice.

(A Not So) Nearly Wordless Wednesday: "Every Fair Face"

Never lose an opportunity to see anything that is beautiful.
        It is God's handwriting - a wayside sacrament.    Welcome
        it in every fair face, every fair sky,  every fair flower.
                                                                             (Ralph Waldo Emerson)

It was a gorgeous day, warm and blue and bright with a cool breeze which danced with the bees and the little flying things that love it more than even I do. The grass had been mowed and the air was sweet with its moist, green fragrance. So on our walk, after the soccer hoards and the new volleyball hoards had quit the park and left it to Dunc and me to enjoy all to ourselves, I did what nature demanded, which to quietly lay down on the grass, heedless of its clippings, which wanted nothing more than to inch their way into my shoes and under my socks, climb into the sleeves of my shirt and work their way against against my skin. I did not mind, though, because the sky was too blue not to marvel at, the world around me too perfect not to rejoice in.

And Duncan, being a Golden Retriever, and a lover of all things, did what his nature demanded, which was to forget his ball and amble to my side where he could lean over me, where he could drool for a moment, obscure my view, and then slobber my nose with a great big kiss.

What a lovely view I have. And what a lovely day.




Leave a comment and make the day even better!

"The Journey-Work of the Stars"

I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars. (Walt Whitman)

They mowed the grass today as they do once a week. It's a chore I have been without for the past seven years, and have somehow grown to miss. There is something nice about kicking off your shoes and feeling those long blades working their way between your toes as they paint the soles of your feet muddy green and leave them sticky and sappy with their sweet juice. It's easy for me to feel nostalgic about such a tedious act having not done it for so long, but I miss the smell and the sweat and the sun on my back and face, the feeling of accomplishment when it's over, and the icy sting of cold beer sliding down your throat as your reward.

Tonight Duncan and I walked through the grass after a very long and trying day of work. Dunc rolled among the clipping, joyously and without care, sniffing and huffing while I kicked off my flip-flops and kneaded the small, dry piles into greater ones with my bare feet. The smell was luxurious and intoxicating, and as the moon rose orange and as fat as a too-ripe peach in the east, and stars ignited around and beyond her, I couldn't help but feel the passing of the summer in the coolness of the evening air and the quieting song of the crickets. There is very little grass-mowing left in our immediate future, perhaps only three or four more times if we're lucky. Autumn is coming, with its own parade of fragrances, but I will miss the grass and all the loveliness it brings to my small corner of the world.

I am green at heart, a child of summer and wonder, who loves watching his good red dog roll among its blanket, a smile spread wide across his face.

 

 There is not one blade of grass, there is no color in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice.

(John Calvin)

If you liked this post, or hated it even, I'd love to hear about it. Please take a moment to leave a comment. After all, it's the little things that matter most in this world!

The Rains

The rains brought a wet and soft kind of silence, a faint rhythmic thrum––on the leaves, dripping down the rough bark of the maples, mingling like familiars among the bowing blades of grass––a silence felt rather than heard. The mornings were sweet for Duncan and me, with a sprinkling so fine it could hardly even be called a mist. The drops were motes: silky, invisible, and delightful on my cheeks and throat, gathering as they did, like sunshine along the line of Duncan's back, extending from the tip of his nose, gathering together sweetly on his eyelashes, parading all the way down to his golden strands at the end of his tail.

It has been a long time since we have walked in such silence. The air had turned cool––nearly cold––and all those people in all those home around us were doing what I had done when the drowning heat of the week before had finally passed: they flung open their windows and turned off their air conditioners and allowed the first fresh air to mingle among their things and themselves. The Run seemed almost empty without the constant whir of machines, the lurching clap clap clap of motors coming suddenly to life. The only sound was the dreamlike drizzle off the trees and the soft squish of our feet in the soft earth. We walked slowly, without purpose or hurried pace, afraid to stir the silence even slightly for fear that the morning would shatter, which it eventually did, but by no fault of our own.

For many these rains were anything but peaceful. Homes have been lost, as have lives, and it will be a very long time before things return to the way were only a week ago, but for Duncan and me, in our little corner of the world, in their own way they were wondrous, not for their cacophony but for their serenity. That seems almost unfair to admit, but not to marvel at them would be a lie, and to ignore even the smallest drops would be a crime.

More Than a Thousand Miles Later

Ever wonder where you'd end up if you took your dog for a walk and never once pulled back on the leash? (Robert Brault)

Six years ago tonight, after a long day of work, I took Duncan on what was certainly our two-hundredth walk to the park to unwind and clear my head. I'd dabbled with blogging, writing a short-lived fiction series called School Daze, but it was difficult work and my heart just wasn't in it. I'd been searching for a new idea, something that would be easier to manage than a series of connected short stories, something close to my heart and relevant to my life. While Duncan was tending to business, I noticed one of the little leaguers struggling with his own business much to the horror of his mother. Almost instantly I knew what my new blog would be about: the places Duncan led me, the adventures we had, the things we taught each other.

It's been quite the journey: 964 posts and 55,157 page views, countless magic feathers, six pairs of walking shoes, one sturdy pair of winter boots, and hundreds, if not thousands of miles later, we're still here. It's always been about Duncan and the journey, of course, but tonight I wanted to take just a moment, as I often do on this anniversary, to thank my readers. Your support and encouragement over the years has been a blessing I never anticipated. I never expected that people from every state in the country and from nearly every country in the world--from South Africa to Chile--would join us on our walks. Readers have come and gone and many have stayed. I value each of you, especially those who leave comments and kindness when they visit. You, and my good red dog, have brought more pleasure and wonder to my life than I can express. Thank you.

I hope to see you out there, among the trees, be they green and full of leaves, or cotton-covered by snow, be the air sweet and fragrant or wet and filled with the breath from our bodies. Duncan and I will greet you warmly and with great tenderness. There is always a place for you at our sides.

If you are seeking creative ideas, go out walking.  Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk. (Raymond Inmon)

If you enjoyed this post, please leave a comment. Your comments don't pay the bills but they surely make life that much sweeter.

Celebration!

While there are countless things in this life that make me happy, few make me as happy as bringing joy to Duncan. And tonight, in honor of his ninth birthday, I got to do that with a trip to Hero's. Caught in traffic I called in a panic and alerted them to the fact that it's Roo's big day so they offered to stay open until we got there so they could help him celebrate.

And celebrate they did!

They gave him all sorts of good treats, danced with him, sang to him, and Retta, who he loves dearly, cried at the sight of his joy. Her kindness and generosity to Dunc is limitless and I love watching him play with her. She even gave him a couple of very meaty raw bones to enjoy for dinner tonight.

All in all he made out pretty well, what with the new dragon friend we brought home, the bag of apple cranberry treats, the birthday cupcake, a dried catfish skin, and a candy bone.

 

The people at Hero's are some of the finest I have ever met, as are the good people who wished him a happy birthday on Facebook today. I would be lost without him and thank The Universe daily that so many people have been able to share in our walks these past seven years, loving him from near and far.

Happy birthday to my good boy, my best boy. Blessings to you, Dunc. If you receive half as many as you have bestowed upon me, you will the luckiest, happiest dog in the world.


Please be sure to leave a comment and tell Duncan happy birthday!

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Happy Birthday, Duncan!

Happy birthday, Roo! Nine is sublime!

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: A New Friend

Recently some neighbors of ours lost their black lab Clancy to cancer. Clancy was a good dog, strong and muscly, a bit more vocal, perhaps, than his neighbors would have liked, but good nonetheless. He fought a good fight and left his family having touched their lives deeply.

Recently they were able to invite a new dog into their home, a stocky little yellow lab named Bentley, who loves the grass and Duncan, my pocket full of treats, and showing us his pale pink belly. Dunc, who normally doesn't pay much attention to other dogs, is quite taken with this new pup and both consented to getting their picture taken together.

 Roo made a goofy face for the first one, startling Bentley, but agreed to pose politely for the second.

Our walks down The Run just got better!

Feathers for Flight for a Friend

“Every fear hides a wish.” David Mamet

Recently an old college friend, Koko Cooper, who directed me on stage in David Mamet's Duck Variations––the performance of which I am probably proudest––announced that she'd accepted a new job, the training for which would require her to fly here to Colorado for a few days. Koko was a good friend, kind and patient, and incredibly generous, so when I read about her fear and the experiences she's had flying, I knew what I had to do. She had to have one of my magic feathers. They did wonders for me when I was preparing for my flight to Buffalo last year and I figured maybe all she needed was a little extra magic to get her off the ground.

So last week Duncan and I dumped all the feathers I've collected over the years onto the coffee table and went through them. The table, a heavy and dark tiled thing, turned into a rainbow of memories and inspiration. I took a long time going through them, running my fingers along their sleek bodies, strumming the music from them, holding each up to Duncan for his inspection. Finally, he seemed to settle on a nice red one, bright and vivid, a parrot feather my friend David had sent me. I picked out a simple card with a puffin on it, a bird most people falsely believe doesn't fly despite the fact that it does, and slipped it into the mail.

It has arrived safely in Chicago, ready for Koko to carry with her onto the plane that will bring it back to Colorado. It will not bring her luck but the kind of magic that is familiar with the air, with its currents and calms, with the serenity of boundless blue space, and the strength to accomplish whatever it is she sets out to do. She doesn't yet know that that magic resides deep within herself, but I have faith the feather will whisper its secrets to her as it whispered them to me. 

Koko, you will be fine. And if we can see each other after these eighteen long years, I will experience the magic of that feather again. Be strong and brave, my friend. The feather will carry you far.

"Ducks!"

Friends and Storms

The clouds rolled in early this afternoon, high and dark, without much of a wind, but with tremendous drama. I had just enough time to take Duncan out for a quick walk before the thunder and lightning started right overhead. We ducked inside and while I turned on the fans, cranked the stereo up high, and slipped him into his Thundershirt, the rain started. It was not a shy rain, but came suddenly and with great force, turning the day into dusk, scenting the air with that lake smell I miss from my days in Chicago. Dunc put on a brave face, staying close and not hiding, but making sure I was always close enough to touch. It rained and thundered for an hour or so and then was gone. The skies opened up, the air became muggy, and afternoon slipped quietly into evening. Duncan and I sat on the patio, he snoring while I read for a few hours, and all seemed right with the world.

And then it started again. This time the lightning was much lower and closer, the thunder shaking the apartment. There was little I could do to drown out the rumble, so I cuddled with Roo on the couch and slipped him treats and praise for as long as he could stand it. While I straightened the apartment he seemed busy darting back and forth between the living room and the bedroom on a hurried and secret mission. He vanished as the storm reached its peak, the rain roaring, the flowers hanging from my patio swaying in the wind, lightning somehow making the daylight even brighter. When I finally went to investigate I found him in the bedroom, his nose tucked under my bed. In days past he took great comfort in crawling under the bed, his belly rubbing the carpet, his tousled head occasionally bumping against the underside of the box spring. The arrival of my new bed several years ago put an end to that as it was much too low for him to crawl under. Since then he's contented himself with squeezing his nose and a paw or two under it. It's not much but it makes him feel better.

While I'd been preoccupied with weekend chores he'd been busy between thunderclaps collecting his friends and hurrying them into the bedroom where he could cuddle with them and wait the storm out. I curled up next to him, stroked a paw, and whispered encouraging words into his ear. He stayed there long after I left and didn't come out until the storm had passed.

As I sit on the patio again, the sun long since set, the crickets and night critters chirping, the wind is picking up again. The leaves on the Lindens and cottonwoods are brushing against each other, trying their hardest to sound like the waves I miss on Lake Michigan, and I can see flashes of lightning in the north. Dunc will most likely sleep on the bed with us tonight, and that's just fine. Sometimes we all need a little extra help to make it through the difficult times.

Winnie Day Update: Together

Earlier this afternoon I set Winnie's urn out on her chair where she spent much of last summer laying on the little blanket my mother crocheted for her. Almost immediately Pip, who rarely sits there, crawled up and laid down next to it and hasn't budged once.

I'm not waiting alone.

Winnie Day

It was a year ago today that Winnie left us and I can honestly say not a single day has gone by that she hasn't been in my thoughts. I have dutifully refilled her glass of water on the coffee table and each time I feed Pip and Olive I call out, "Come on, Bean. Come on, Mouse." For a very long time I kept her feathered urn on the kitchen counter where she liked to perch and watch me cook but recently moved it to my bedside bookshelf where she can sit next to me while I sleep, which she also liked to do. I'm as loyal and dedicated to her now as I was every day of her life. And I miss her more than I thought possible.

 

I would be lying if I said I hadn't spent portions of the day crying. I look at her spot on the chair and tear up. I feel an emptiness on my hip where she used to perch. But I've decided I'm not going to be sad. Instead I'm going to make a bowl of popcorn and eat it. She loved popcorn more than just about anything else, so much so that on that last afternoon together, when she'd stopped eating, I was desperate and made her some, which she eagerly devoured one last time. So I'll make my popcorn and think of the day Ken and I brought her and Pip home and all the good days in between, and celebrate her life as it deserves to be celebrated.

I'll remember the last time I took her outside, the last time I held her little paws in my hand, and that beautiful face of hers, with the diamond on her nose. She was my most precious girl, my Bean, my Mouse. And I was her Papa. And someday I'll get to see her again. I know it. I can't believe anything else, but that just wouldn't make sense.

“You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.” 

 (J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan)

Little Vistors: (A Not So) Wordless Wednesday

We have made some new friends this summer without doing much of anything to gain their favor and win their trust.

The hummingbirds first appeared in June, darting nervously around the feeder I hung on our patio. For a very long time there were only two, one quite small and dark, with tiny little feet curled under his sleek body, and a bigger, sandy, desert-dirt colored one, feisty and vocal, and intent upon keeping the smaller one away. They were afraid of our presence as I sipped tea in the morning and then again in the evenings when I relaxed and read or just sat with Duncan, listening to the crickets and enjoying the cool breeze. But recently there have been as many as six attempting to feed all at once, diving at each other, chirping loudly, each defending the territory they saw as their own. I have sat quite still and called out softly, "Hello, little bird" each time they appeared, and now they don't seem to care about our presence at all. Sometimes, in fact, they slip right into the patio, bypassing the feeder entirely to float a foot or two above Dunc's upturned head, hovering before my face where I can look directly into their dark little eyes while they look back. When I have cleaned and refilled the feeder they have darted back and forth in front of the patio doors, anxiously calling at me, ignoring Dunc below them. And there have been times when I have rehung the thing that they have buzzed around my head, actually brushing against my arms to drink from it while I rehang it from its hook.

They have become quite precious to me and I never tire of their regular visits. I will miss them when they are gone, but for now I am quite content to sit back and enjoy their busy little movements, the buzz of their wings, their delicate voices, and the simplicity they bring to my days.

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.