Hopes

It has been a sleepy day with Patty Griffin playing on the stereo. The sun has been very bright through the windows and even though the heat hasn't been turned on for nearly a week, the screen door is open and I am warm.

Duncan and I have walked down through The Run to The Glen several times, chasing squirrels and Buster, the cute little mutt who lives downstairs. The chores have been tended to and even though Dunc thought a little tug of war with his Bully sounded good, he gave up too soon, yawned a big, wide open yawn and went back to the couch to curl up in his favorite spot.


Even in his sleep he is gorgeous and I marvel at him, wondering what sweet dreams keep the smile on his face. I hope I am there with him, throwing the ball, wrestling in the long grass of summers past while the birds whistle above us. I hope I am praising him there and patting his tail or running my fingers though the hair at his ears. I hope he is happy and knows how much joy he brings me even when we're not walking.

Blessings of Silence

Tonight on our walk there was a moment after the sun had slipped behind the mountains and the light slowly extinguished from the sky like a candle flame swallowed by rising wax, when the world held its breath and we stopped moving down the path. Strangely the geese on the fields were quiet and even the light traffic on Bowles seemed to come to a standstill. Duncan stopped and looked at me as his leash fell slack on the icy sidewalk and I thought of those last few minutes in Pocatello, just before we left town.

I'd pulled off Philbin Road and up the lane toward Ruth's parent's house and the giant green barn I've wanted to explore for the past twenty one years but have somehow managed to never set foot in. It was a cold morning. I could see the frost building up on the fence posts. Even the gravel beneath us was crystalizing. Pocatello was at the base of the mountains in the distance, the morning just bright enough that not even her street lights could be seen. I stopped the car and rolled down the window and breathed in that sweet Idaho air once more, relishing the silence out on the potato fields a quarter mile from the reservation. I climbed out and looked south toward the orange line in the sky. Duncan turned in the backseat and leaned out the window to follow my gaze. An entire day's adventure loomed ahead of us, six hundred forty miles, most of it yellow and windy Wyoming. My body was already beginning to vibrate as though the road had begun to pass beneath us at seventy, eighty, and sometimes ninety miles an hour. But at that moment, with the day still only a vague notion, only the silence mattered, the silence and the journeys we'd made together.


Tonight, on this the first night of the new year, with Pocatello and my family so far away, with another Christmas only a memory, the silence and the oranging light above the mountains was like a wish for peace and health and love, for kindness and pleasant dreams of flying, all the good things one could hope for as the calendar turns over once again. It was a wish for the future and a prayer that the past is able to find its place and be content there.

And as the moment of silence ended––for it was only a moment, lasting only as long as it takes two hummingbirds to kiss––as the world swallowed and its ears popped, as the traffic noise returned and the geese took flight and the ice on the lake shifted and moaned softly, Duncan and I stepped together into the new year. We have shared many steps, weathered many storms, but also many idyllic days and nights. Here's to hoping the blessing of the new year join us in our journey.

Christmas Be Illin'

And now, as promised, the latest road trip video, starring Ruth, Duncan, and myself! Enjoy!

Merry Christmas

I hope your holiday was exactly as you'd dreamed, that your spirits were bright, that your home was filled with family and friends and delicious food, warm laughter and glowing hearts.

Duncan and I wish you only the best. Thank you for all you've done for us.

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas from The Crew

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Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Spoiled

Duncan loves my mother. A lot. After working hard at keeping him from begging for people food, or even coming in the kitchen, it was my mother who undid all my hard work by introducing him to turkey, feeding him in the kitchen and letting him beg for it. And even though I scolded her and continue to tease her about it, it's become a bit of a tradition whenever they're together. They sneak and connive and plot behind my back and there's nothing I can do about it.

When we pulled up the drive last night after a ten hour trek across the vast bland yellow that is Wyoming, Dunc was more than ready to get out of the car. Except for the soft blue and green and red lights glowing along the eves, the house was dark and quiet. I was afraid no one was home but soon the door opened and mom was standing on the walk beaming from ear to ear. Duncan, who'd already begun pacing and whining softly went from zero to eight thousand at the sight of her. He jumped up and pawed at the window, his whine turning into a prolonged, high-pitched jet engine wail. I turned off the engine as Mom rushed forward and opened his door. He jumped up, straight at her, chirping like a rabid parakeet as he clutched the sleeve of her jacket in his teeth and led her back and forth through the dusting of snow on the yard as though he were showing her around.


This morning we went to her shop to get my hairs cut. I had barely turned my back when she fed him a lollipop. She held it up hoping he'd take a few tentative licks, which he did.


She was not, however, prepared for what followed. He quickly decided that cherry suckers were his very most favorite things in all the world (right up there with a roll in the snow and turkey fed directly from Grandma's fingers). Before she could react he slurped up the entire thing and fought her for control of it.

She squealed and pulled and fought back as hard as she could but he can be surprisingly tenacious, especially when it comes to things as wonderful as cherry-flavored lollipops.

Eventually her only recourse was to beg and plead.

He's spoiled rotten but it looks like I'm going to have to keep my eye on mom rather than Roo.

Eli

On Saturday night Duncan and I were invited to dinner at Heather and Zach's house. Heather was our first Golden friend in Denver and her dog Riley, who passed away last summer, was one of the reasons Ken and I adopted Duncan. Heather was devastated when Riley died but not long ago she met Eli and brought him home. We have been planning on introducing our dogs and finally got the chance Saturday over dinner.

Eli is one hundred percent puppy, beautiful and precocious, curious and timid all at once, ambling about on paws bigger than they should be, managing a tail he hasn't quite mastered. The two chased each other around the yard, argued over who got to look after the bully sticks and got along famously. And the three grown ups present could only sit and watch them, stupid grins of amazement on our faces.

On her Facebook page Sunday morning Heather wrote, "There is nothing more enjoyable than watching two golden retrievers playing together. The room fills with joyful energy and you can't help but smile." She couldn't have been more correct and I can't wait to do it again.

Bed

This is how the mornings go. My Chi-Gong phone alarm goes off at 5:30 but I don't normally get out of bed until 6. Duncan will move from the bed to his pillow at the foot while the cats, particularly Olive, follow me around as I stumble down the dark hallway, through the living room and into the kitchen where I turn on the small light above the stove and turn the kettle on for tea. Olive coils herself around my feet while Pip takes up his spot in front of the food dish, yowling as though I've forgotten to feed him every day of his life. Winnie stays on the back of the couch where she watches the rest of us with bemused indifference. Only Duncan doesn't move. He curls up on the pillow and doesn't get up until it's time for his morning walk.

This morning, though, after I'd made the bed and jumped in the shower, after I'd prepared my lunch and even Duncan's breakfast, after I'd pulled the blinds and discovered a snowy world where the temperature hovered around two degrees, Duncan still hadn't appeared. I stepped back into the bedroom and found him in a nice cozy spot, shameless and unapologetic.

He'd somehow crawled back under the comforter I fold up at the foot of the bed, slid around and snuggled under it with his head poking out.

It took some coaxing, but eventually we made it outside, although after he finished his breakfast and before I'd even left, he was back up on the bed and under the covers. Clearly he had his priorities straight.

Flying as We Do

It was dark when I pulled into the parking lot tonight and as my headlamps moved over the building I looked up into my third story bedroom window as I always do and saw Duncan standing on the window sill, perched in the tight nook between the glass and my bed.

This morning after our walk while I stood in the kitchen preparing his breakfast, Dunc sat at my feet, his tail smacking the floor behind him as I went through the routine we go through every morning. First I ask if he's hungry. When his tail wags and he barks yes, I run through today's menu in my best French accent, "A very special free range chicken, served raw with a blend of bone, egg shell, berries of the blue and rasp variety, raw egg, carrot and pea." He seemed especially happy this morning so when I dipped into my bottle of OptaGest and sprinkled it over his food, I told him a little story, as I do every morning. Sometimes I tell him the powder will make his tennis balls taste like pepperoni, or that it will lure a big fat squirrel to the patio where it will sit and squeak all day. Sometimes the powder will make him dream of a meadow where bunnies crouch under every shrub and where pumpkin treats and meatballs grow on every tree, where there are wide pools to swim in, vast snowy hills to slide down and green fields to chase butterflies through. Last week when he was having a difficult time paying attention on our walks I told him the powder would help him listen to papa's voice and stay out of trouble. This morning I told him he would spend his naps flying through the air, chasing the squirrels up to the tops of the tallest cottonwood trees and dive bomb the bunnies from above. He seemed quite happy with that idea but I certainly didn't expect to find him wedged between my bed and the window acting out our little fantasy.

When I was very young, and maybe even when I wasn't so young, I could spend an afternoon on my own, running through the neighborhood or riding my bicycle up and down the hills, my arms outstretched, my face turned into the sky, feeling as though I was flying as I darted back and forth, the sound effects burbling from my lips and throat as I went. I was fortunate in that I grew up in a family who nourished my imagination, encouraged and cultivated it, and never told me something was impossible, that we only need to try until we make it real.

Tonight when Duncan and I slipped across the street, the traffic heavier than usual because of the after work holiday shoppers, I undid his leash and let him run rampant across the wide fields. He trotted ahead and then zipped back, circling wide then slowly coming in closer and closer, veering off at the last moment. He was flying and even though the center of my face is the epicenter of my cold and I can't breath very well, I ran with him, arms held out wide, zooming after him with the sound effects vibrating from my lips. We ran and ran and were it a summer night, with the moon bone white and big, we would be flying still.

Sliding from Dreams

I have strange dreams. Last week it was a Dickensian Christmas Carol nightmare and last night it was about the new season of the television show "Lost." My dreams are all over the place and almost all of them are extremely vivid. Typically they follow a linear path and have a very strong narrative. It must be the writer in me, directing and guiding them in as plausible a direction as I can.

When Duncan dreams he whines, soft little cottony sounds that come from the front of his throat. And like most dogs he kicks his hind legs as he chases dream bunnies over grassy and sunny dreamscapes. Last night, though, he curled up beside me in bed but rather than kick and whine his body stiffened up and elongated as though he was trying to reach from the headboard all the way down to the foot. I stroked his paw and kissed him on the cheek but he kept at it all night.

We awoke to another gorgeous morning with a bright blue sky and a startlingly warm sun shining in the windows of my apartment. Duncan and I ambled down the stairs and around the corner to the start of our trail and I knew almost immediately what he'd been dreaming about all night.
While I'd been dreaming about television, he'd spent the entire night reliving yesterday's escapades on the ice, planning new and exciting moves. I stood by for nearly an hour and watched him jog up the hill, spin and slide down, his body taut and straight, his paws out before him like Superman. Then back up he'd jog to do the whole thing over again. I was chilled and hungry and hadn't had my morning tea, but for the life of me, I could not imagine taking the sliding smile from his lovely face.

Slide

Most of our snow has melted except for that which sits on the north side of the buildings, or even in tiny little mounds against the trunks of the trees or at the base of the fence posts. And what's left has ceased to be snow but has turned to tight packs of unrelenting gravel coated and leaf-encrusted balls of blue ice.

Several weeks ago during the last big snow I donned my boots and carved a trail that wound from my apartment through The Run on the north side of the buildings down to The Glen where Duncan likes to run wild. The trail was quite popular among the dog folk here, but now, after several weeks of being trod upon, it is no longer and easy-going thoroughfare and is little more than an unforgiving ice sluice, each turn a dead-man's curve. Duncan and I walk it every morning and again every afternoon. It's where he chases the squirrels and sometimes if the time is right, we find Brady out on his patio enjoying the sunset over the golf course. But it's becoming clear that perhaps we need to find a new place to walk until the ice breaks and we can get ourselves on solid ground again.

This morning, after tossing and turning all night, I took Roo outside for his first walk of the day. Even though it was incredibly warm and the sun was high and big in the sky, the path was as treacherous as ever. Duncan spotted a squirrel and darted after it. I lagged behind, taking my time to be sure of my footing, but kept my eye on him as bounded ahead. He's normally quite graceful, sometimes elegant even in the way he moves, but this morning something happened that caught us both by surprise: he slipped on the ice, went down on his belly and slid halfway down the hill, spinning a lazy half circle as he went. He didn't fight it but merely watched the world pass around him. When he slid off the ice and into the grass he sat still for a moment, dazed. I hurried to his side to check on him, afraid he'd hurt himself. As soon as I rushed to him, though, he jumped up, darted back the way we'd come, spun sharply, charged at me and threw himself onto his belly to slide again. Despite my fever and chills all I could do was sit on my heels and watch Dunc run back and forth and careen into me, a wide grin spread across his face. Over and over he did it, his enthusiasm growing each time.

If I'd felt better I would've joined him. But seeing as how slowly that ice is breaking I think I'll have ample opportunity once I feel better.

A Lost Day

I'm getting a cold so I did nothing today. In fact, I think I did less than nothing. I didn't even get out of bed until 11, something I haven't done since high school. And then I napped from 3 to 6:30. This is a lost day, a day I will never get back. Thankfully I've seen no one, talked to no one but myself, faced no Black Friday crowds and haven't moved much at all, except to take Duncan out this morning and then again after he ate his dinner. He's been very patient but every now and then he looks up at me and sighs, like a disgusted parent. I'd much rather lay on the couch or in my new bed and cuddle than do anything else. He's just going to have to get used to it because today the world is lost to me and I don't fell well enough to even regret it.

Within

Today was the first time I've spent Thanksgiving alone since 1994, my senior year in college. In those days all my friends went home to be with their families, but because mine was so far away, and because I was an RA in the dorms where I lived, I always stayed behind, taking my dinner at the Denny's in Highland Park on Route 41, a thick notebook and a nice pen in tow. It was not the most ideal way to spend my favorite holiday, but I'd sit at my table eating my turkey and stuffing while I wrote letters to friends. After I graduated my roommates and I hosted an orphan Thanksgiving dinner, and the year after was spent with Ken and April, and every one of those Thanksgivings was magical, from making the world's best mashed potatoes to giving Winnie and Pip a bath after they somehow became infested with fleas. I would not lose a single one of those memories for all the money in the world.

This has been a challenging year. Ken and I separated after thirteen years together and I had to relearn much of my life. It hasn't always been easy and quite often I've struggled more than these writings admit, but I spent a great deal of my time today reflecting on past Thanksgiving dinners with Ken and my friends and comparing them to where I am now. It would've been easy to feel as though a terrible accident had happened, that by being alone I had somehow suffered some sort of failure. But that's not quite the way I see it.

I believe that happiness comes from within ourselves, that while material things may offer a temporary pleasure, and the company of family and friends certainly enriches us, it is we who determine how to feel. I was invited to spend my day with several people I know but in the end I chose to stay at home with Duncan and the kittens, to make my own dinner, to reflect on the past, both distant and recent. And while people tended to pity me for being alone I can not stress enough that I was not lonely. A year ago I never would've imagined I'd be where I am now, but I had plenty to celebrate and honor within myself. For that I am proud. It was a far better Thanksgiving than those ones spent in Denny's.

I would like to take a moment to thank Amber and Jesse and Kenzie for stopping by, bringing me a decaf latte and a beautiful picture Kenz colored, which now hangs on my fridge. I'd like to thank Andy for knocking on my door and giving me a hug. I'd like to thank my mother, Ruth and Kevi for calling, and Brady, Allison and Larisa for inviting me to join in their own celebrations. My day was made all the more perfect knowing that people love and think of me as much and as often as I love and think of them. Bless you all.

Now that the day is behind me, now that I am sitting in my bed, Duncan snoring at my feet, Olive batting her big yellow eyes at me from the pillow at my side, Winnie and Pip waiting patiently for me to lay down so they can claim their spots on my shoulder and hip, I think I'll just enjoy the silence and reflect, as I do every year, on what A.A. Milne meant when he wrote, "And by and by Christopher Robin came to the end of things, and he was silent, and he sat there, looking out over the world, just wishing it wouldn't stop."

Thankful

Among the many things for which I am thankful (my family and friends, my health, the sweet sunlight of laughter, the crispness and weight of a good book in my hands, new pens on new paper, the feel of climbing into a bed with fresh sheets, the unexpected exhilaration of a shooting star, fireflies, the poems of Mary Oliver, hugging someone and being hugged back, kiwi and bananas for breakfast, National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, a letter in the mail, the song "Pulling Touch" by Poi Dog Pondering, the color red, Winnie the Pooh) I am thankful for Duncan's kisses, which are quite often forced on me, but always welcome.

Tonight I got some good ones, but Duncan saved one for you.

Duncan and I are grateful for each and every one of you.
Happy Thanksgiving.