Long Hours

I am tired today and would not be sitting here awake were it not for the hour I spent with Duncan at The Ponds. The park itself is nothing special but the walk up--with the sun setting low over the wide fields of tall, yellowing grass that roll and climb uphill, ending at the old barn and the narrow line of elms and cottonwoods mingling in silence on the winding banks of the scratch-thin brook--is always remarkable. I took Duncan to the dog park not to play but to watch the light break from the sky, seep through the barren branches and boughs, drip down onto the grass and stain his coat. I took him to the park with the vague hope that that is where we will meet tonight in our long hours of dreams.

Two Sides

Duncan has become quite the determined hunter since we've started exploring The Run, which is both squirrel and bunny-laden. He even stalks the small gray birds which mind their own business as they hop and chirp among the low growing shrubs. Dunc charges ahead of me, leaping through the bushes, snapping at the birds, rousting the squirrels and scattering the rabbits. He's the rudest alarm clock imaginable.

This morning he sniffed out a squirrel lazing on someone's patio and chased it first up the air-conditioning unit, where the poor thing realized it was completely exposed and vulnerable. As Duncan sprang forward the squirrel leapt over his head, caught itself on the screen door and scampered all the way to the top where it screamed and chittered a litany of curses at us. Duncan couldn't squeeze through the bars on the patio but was content to sit and pace and pant and torment the poor thing until I caught up to him and pulled him back. No sooner had he turned away than he was barking up another tree at four squirrels.
I watched him watch them and was amazed at his attention. It's like I'm not there, like nothing in the world is there, just the tree and the squirrels and the light catching his coat. He is a remarkable creature, so tender and quiet as he cuddles against me in bed, then so fierce and determined moments later when he's outside, oblivious to all but his prey.
I could watch him for hours.

One Wise Choice

There is a desperation to coming home, to getting Duncan on the leash and outside before the day has entirely faded. Although it is not always possible I try awfully hard because it doesn't seem fair to sit in a window all day, looking out on the world and not feeling the sun on your face and the crisp Autumn air in your lungs. So tonight I raced home and ran with him across the street, up the hill where the two trees stand overlooking the lake. We plopped down in the cool grass and rolled around and over each other, tangling the leash between us until I finally took it off and rolled it up into my pocket. When the day seemed settled and the night an inevitability, we found a comfortable silence to sit in, Duncan resting his chin on my knee while I played with curls at his ears and stroked his soft cheek, two of my favorite parts of The Duncan. The night whispered around us and swallowed our reverence.
Racing home to spend a few precious fleeting moments of light with my boy seemed the wisest decision I'd made all day.

The Ugly Side

For two and a half years Duncan and I have made the park our own, running its vast lengths in the hot summer months, appreciating its every nuance in Spring and Autumn--stopping to gaze in wonder upon the blossoms, or reflecting with terrible but sweet nostalgia on the fallen, curling leaves. Even in Winter, my least favorite season, we coast over the snow and blue ice as though gliding over a bright but forgotten moon on the far edge of the galaxy. We know its scents and flavors, the sound of the wind in the elms or the calls of the boys who play late night Frisbee on the baseball fields. We know the way the stars look in June as well as January, the Dipper held firmly in the northern sky or Orion on the hunt days after Christmas. There have been long February nights when snow covers everything and I believe our feet have been the only ones to crack the frozen crust of white.

But there is a dark side to the park which breaks my heart. More times than I could count I have written about the soccer hoards or the children athletes and "their wretched parents." Duncan and I have navigated their gatherings with great difficulty in the Fall and Spring, sometimes staying away for weeks, not returning until they have moved on, their discarded water bottles and fast food wrappers the only reminder that they were there at all.

I do not like sports. I never have. I find them brutal and arrogant and lacking the very sportsmanlike ideals they claim to foster. The public, and especially children, have been duped when it comes to turning athletes into role models, coaches into sages and paradigms of wisdom.

The soccer hoards have left, as have the baseball teams. Now the lights of the park are lit for the kiddie football league, my least favorite of all sports. Tonight we circled the baseball diamonds where they practice and I winced each time I heard a coach scream at his charges. It's not the yelling that bothers me so much; after all, it can be a great motivator, but the language they use, the things they imply. It was a warm and lovely night, but I felt myself hardening up, growing angry and more than once I stopped and listened and considered saying something.

One coach growled at his team as he strode back and forth in front of them. "What the hell was that?" he roared. "You're all prancing around out there like a bunch of pussies. C'mon, you're in the fifth grade! Act like it!"

Another accused his team of being girls and then paraded before them, his wrist falling limp, a distinct and offense sashay in his step, an intolerant lisp in his voice. I got the message.

Another made the boys run laps, calling the one who'd fallen behind a fatso.

And where were the parents? There were none on the perimeter or in the stands. None watching at all. No, they were seated in their running cars, some asleep, some talking on the phone, none involved in the training of their children. It was heart breaking.
So we climbed the hill and sat on the swings at the jungle gym. Duncan rolled in the sawdust below the slide while I tried to block out the sound of the whistles, each one a violent shove, pushing childhood further and further away.

A Crack in the Sky

Now that the hours have changed and there is light waiting to greet us when our eyes slip open in the morning, I rarely get to see the sun come up. As difficult as it was to climb out of bed in the darkness I'd grown accustomed to watching the sky change in the east, easing into my day as smoothly as I eased into my socks. Duncan and I had spent weeks in the soft early pink of morning walking The Run, him chasing squirrels while I marveled at the color of light on the trunks of the aspens. Now the better colors are reserved for those in the evening on the western horizon, jagged and darkened by The Rockies.

Sleep has not been easy coming to me lately, and even harder to hold onto once I've found it. Much of my nights are spent on the couch, watching movies or reading until my eyes grow heavy. But once in bed I toss and turn, cough and try to make room for myself among the dog and three cats who share my space with me.

This morning when it was still dark, Duncan woke me early, standing beside the bed, his nose nearly touching my own, a soft whine in his voice. He does not like to wake me but when he does I know it's time to go, that there is no time to spare. I pulled on my shoes and a jacket--my camera still tucked in the inside pocket--found my knit cap and stumbled downstairs with him. He trotted ahead, the tag on his collar jingling like a Christmas bell in the morning silence, and crossed the parking lot to his grassy spot before I'd even cleared the last landing. But when I did I stopped and caught my breath.

Light had just barely cracked the darkness, splitting the sky in two, one half black and silent, the other red and gold and as violent as a wide burst of lightning. I sat down on the brittle grass with Duncan at my side and watched the night break above us like we were the only two sets of eyes in all of existence. Like this morning was made solely for us.

Comfort at Sunset

Duncan dragged me to the lake tonight, a place we have looked upon but not visited recently. He was on another of his missions it seemed, pulling me behind him, that determined and set look on his face, ignoring the rustling of the leaves in the shrubs where the rabbits crouch, slipping past the trunks of the trees where the squirrels squat and watch the day pass from indigo to blue to gold and back to indigo. We cut across the park and up the hill near the library and down onto the path the leads past the restaurant and Hero's and around the bookstore and the coffee shop to the quiet side where the retirees have built a small community, their front doors and porches facing the shore and the sunrise but never the sunset.
It was quiet out, as though the world was holding its breath, afraid to move 'less the warmth of the day and the season be startled away and replaced with clouds and wind and gray. Dunc sniffed the edges of the path, found a nice tall clump of grass to examine for a few moments and then redoubled his efforts at leading me in the direction of his choosing. Not long into our walk we caught up with a woman pushing a tiny beaming face with a mop of blond curls in a stroller. As we pulled alongside them Dunc slowed his pace and huffed once or twice to catch her attention. She looked at me and smiled, but when her eyes settled on Roo her pace slowed and something in her turned and caught itself.

"Your dog is beautiful," she said. "We have––had one the same color. Her name was Maggie. We had to put her to sleep three weeks ago."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I offered. "Was she with you a long time?"

She smiled and nodded and loosened her grip on the stroller just a bit. "Yes, she was fifteen. Last year when she turned fourteen we threw her a big birthday party and all the family came. And not just the dogs. Everyone. We didn't think she'd make it to fifteen." She looked away and out at the lake, which caught the colors of the sky and somehow made them truer than the originals. "But she did. Fifteen plus three days."

"You're very blessed to have had so much time with her," I said.

Duncan stepped up beside her and brushed her leg as he passed. She smiled and reached down with one hand to stroke his back. Her fingers traced the curls on his shoulders. "He looks so much like her. Same color. Same curls. They could be twins." A flash of embarrassment crossed her face as she withdrew her hand and placed it back on the stroller.

"Would you like to pet him?" I asked. "I think he'd like that very much."

She faltered a moment and then came to a slow and awkward stop. Duncan eased up beside her and without being told sat down. She clicked the lock on the wheel of the stroller and then knelt before him, watching my face for any sign of impatience or weariness. I smiled and nodded.

And then she buried her face in Duncan's chest, ran her fingers over his ears and down his shoulders, entwining them in the long hair on his back. She pulled herself into him and Duncan merely sat and watched, sniffed her hair, breathed softly in her ear. I dropped the leash and let them sit together on the lake path. She hugged him tightly, played with a paw and kissed his cheek, causing his tail to thump once or twice. I was proud of him and not at all shocked by her sudden display of emotion, and yet there was a part of me that felt obligated to say something, to offer some word of consolation. But that was not my part to play. Duncan had led me here for her and for him. My job was to remain silent. So I turned and looked out on the last colors of the day and listened to the gentle splash of the ducks skirting the beach, the silence of the moment, the very soft sighs of the woman grieving her loss.

There is too much noise in this world. Not enough comfort and quiet.

Next time what I'd do is look at
the earth before saying anything. I'd stop
just before going into a house
and be an emperor for a minute
and listen better to the wind
or to the air being still.

When anyone talked to me, whether
blame or praise or just passing time,
I'd watch the face, how the mouth
has to work, and see any strain, any
sign of what lifted the voice.

And for all, I'd know more -- the earth
bracing itself and soaring, the air
finding every leaf and feather over
forest and water, and for every person
the body glowing inside the clothes
like a light.

("Next Time" Mary Oliver)

Sometimes the walks are not for me at all, but the silence I have to offer to the world.

Superior Scribbler

My friend Lori over at Fermented Fur, who I've had the distinct honor of actually meeting and walking with, recently (okay, not so recently) bestowed an award on yours truly for his (on again/off again) efforts at chronicling his adventures (both mis- and otherwise) with his best friend, Duncan. Lori is a gem, a truly gifted writer with a razor sharp wit and a heart of gold and this award means a lot especially since my reports of walks with Duncan have been rather lax as of late. Although I may not have been writing as much as I have in the past, Duncan and I continue to walk and my little "outpost" on the internet (as David calls it) is never far from my mind and heart. Each of my readers, especially those who comment and support us, are like stars in the sky and I feel blessed to have encountered each of you.

I'm supposed to name five blogs who also deserve the award, but wouldn't you know, I just don't want to pick from the list on the right. Despite the rules––and you all know how I feel about rules––all the blogs I list are good and I value each of them for the unique joy they bring to my day. To hell with picking just five. They are all superior scribblers in my book. I encourage each of you to pick three of those blogs, ones you have never visited, stop by and leave them a little note, something kind and happy, and tell them you heard about them from Duncan (and me, of course, even though I am Just the Handler).

To read more about the award (and the rules), please visit here.

Thank you, Lori, and thank you to my readers, who have kept me writing, however infrequently, more often than they could guess. But mostly, a hearty, ear-scritching thanks to Roo, who makes me walk whether I want to or not.

Parliament Serenade

I missed what may very well be the last good day of the year. It was sunny and clear and warm––over 70˚!––and even though my desk at the college is in the darkest, coldest corner, a bleak place without windows or fresh air, Duncan and I were able to enjoy the night. We ventured down The Run, an exercise we've been without since last week's snow and the early darkness. It's become a tricky spot to walk; the steep angle of the north-facing hillside has turned treacherous and slippery under the ice, and too few people are picking up after their pets. Instead we've returned to the park which the high school marching band and soccer hoards have finally abandoned. But tonight, with an orange sherbet sky and warm weather, we trudged through our Run to the Glen.

Duncan was exuberant like I have not seen him in weeks, chasing and romping with two little rabbit-sized pugs he's befriended lately, hunting down stray golf balls (three tonight!) and running back and forth, his body stretched thin and low to the ground, his legs churning and rustling up the leaves, leaving a wake behind him. Occasionally he'd skid to an abrupt halt in a pile of leaves, slide across their brittle backs, kick and fling them up in the air where they'd rain down around his smiling face.

At The Glen I tossed his ball back and forth but the leaves from the aspens have accumulated and the ball was too easily lost among the quilt of their bodies. So we rassled and chased each other up and down the bowl in the earth instead, running rings, jumping back and forth, weaving among the trees. Duncan demanded leaves so I tossed them at his head causing him to rear up and dance among them on his two hind legs before they settled back at his feet.

And then there were the owls. I've laid awake in bed these last few nights trying to sort through all the things in my head, and the owls have been with me, calling to each other outside my window, singing a song only the trees and the night have learned. They roost high in the cottonwoods behind my building, surveying the tall dead grass that borders the golf course, their eyes watchful for the bunnies we chase in the afternoons. Mostly they are invisible, but when I do spy them in the minutes before dawn, their bodies, tall and wide, look like the silhouettes of nests or gnarled knots and were it not for their bobbing horned heads I would miss them entirely.

Tonight there were three of them gathered in the aspens above us. One called down and was answered by its companions. Duncan cantered to a stop and craned his head back to watch them watching us. They continued their conversation, back and forth, back and forth, and even when Roo leaned up against the smallest of the trees they did not fall quiet. I plopped down next to him, buried my sneakers in the leaves, laid back and watched the night come on––orange turning to raspberry then to indigo––and basked in the loveliest of dusk serenades. I could have––and probably should have––spent the night there, Duncan tucked into my side, one paw on my chest, his eyes turned toward the treetops.

Bagged

The poop bags are generally pretty good. They're bright and green and are emblazoned with a happy cartoon of two dogs standing around a steaming pile of their own residue. I've never had a problem with them. The worst that can be said is that sometimes they're a bit tricky to open, especially if it's cold out and you're wearing gloves. But other than that I couldn't ask for a more reliable and easy to use product. They're even biodegradable!

Tonight after an hour at the gym, my body already stiffening up and this one bitch of a muscle screaming at me in my shoulder, Duncan and I walked down to the little enclosed "dog park" at the other end of the complex. It's smaller than The Glen but it's lighted and fenced in and much more user friendly on nights like tonight when all I want is a quick, painless thirty minutes outside with the dog, followed by an extremely hot shower, a beer and a pizza (so much for the hour with my trainer) and a movie on the couch until I pass out.

Duncan took his time sniffing around and prancing about as he is wont to when he knows I can hardly move and will be doing my best Frankenstein's Monster impersonation tomorrow when I walk. First he strolled the perimeter of the yard, sniffing back by the shed where they keep the weed whackers and holiday lights. Then he circled the wiry, little saplings, raising his leg and spritzing each before moving on to the park bench and doing the same to all four of its legs. I stood around, bouncing on my heels and shivering in my jacket as I waitied for him to poop. When he finally did, he chose the furthest and darkest corner, moving off to the side when he'd finished to grin maniacally while watching me shuffle down to him, dodging poop left behind by the dogs of less courteous neighbors.

I reached into my pocket and grabbed one of the several wadded up poop bags I take with me everywhere. I am to poop bags as old ladies are to tissues up the sleeves of their sweaters. I take them with me everywhere. If we're ever out together, you and I, on a hike, or a road trip, shopping at the mall, eating at a restaurant and you find yourself in dire need of a poop bag, I've got you covered. Trust me.

It was dark in that corner of the yard and not even the light from the passing cars was much use. I fetched a treat from my other pocket and slipped it to Roo who took it and ambled off leaving me to clean up after him. A breeze kicked up, stirring the leaves and rattling the twig trunks of the twin saplings. Their shadows swayed back and forth across the crisp, yellowing grass, the moon painting them as pale, bony fingers pointing me in the right direction.

I slid my hand into the bag and reached for the small pile. Since I put him on a raw diet last year, Duncan's poops have been small and hard, shaped like nearly-perfect balls, and never take up very much space in the bag. They're quite manageable, almost cute even, compared to the smoking behemoths I see other dogs leave behind. Still, not noticing the hole in the bottom of the bag and grabbing Duncan's quaint little pile, really digging in and getting it under the nails, was no more pleasant because they're shaped like big peanut M & M's.

It took me a moment. I've grown quite accustomed to the heat, but the moisture and the clearly rendered texture was something new. It was only when I felt them shift and roll down my fingers and into my warm palm that I gasped and ran like a little girl to the nearest garbage can, Duncan chasing after me and batting at my heels like we'd invented a new game.

Sometimes the glamor of my life is almost unbearable.

Softened

My favorite nights are the ones that smell like fabric softener. It seems that no matter how cold the air is on our faces, passing through a cloud of someone's fresh laundry warms us instantly. Tonight everyone must have been tending to the chores they neglected over the long Halloween weekend for the smell of Downey got thicker and heavier the further we got from home. It followed us across the street and lingered faintly on the tree-lined island running down the middle of Bowles. Occasionally the wind wafted it our way as we circled the darkened baseball fields, sloppy with snow melt, silent and haunted. It floated after us as we climbed the hill overlooking the lake, Dunc dragging me behind him. The night was complete and solid by then, and not even the peaks of the mountains glowed with the last of the day's sun. Standing high and looking down on the reflection of the lights of Littleton spread out before us like towns seen at midnight from airplanes, he leaned into the breeze––which did not smell of coffee from the Starbucks or french fries from the restaurants on the far side, but clean and warm, like something carried with us in our pockets. He closed his eyes, prompting me to do the same. Together we stood and breathed. Just breathed. And drifted through the warm scent of home and memory and companionship.

Calling All Angels

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

It was a lonely day. The snow has started to retreat and the sky was blue and warm, but try as I might I couldn't turn the constant drip drip drip of the ice melting off the eaves into anything other than the tick tick tick of an endless day of solitude.

By the time the sun had set and darkness had arrived earlier than I'd been prepared for, after I'd eaten my dinner standing alone in the kitchen, the lights turned down low, Duncan laying at my feet, I felt awfully sad, without anyone to distract me and help my heart feel light. Perhaps its the turning of the season, my first Autumn alone in thirteen years, or the passing of my grandmother, but I felt terrible and watched and listened to my phone not ringing, feeling as though the streets were empty and I was the only one left in all the world. A glass of a wine, a hot shower and an early bedtime did not help.

I laid awake watching the shadows of the barren branches of the linden tree outside my window dance across the ceiling. Pip curled into my shoulder and Olive rested a single paw on my forehead. Duncan was coiled up tight on his pillow, snoring and twitching in his sleep. He whined each time he heard me shift and turn, and finally stretched up, eased toward me in the darkness and felt for my nose with his own.

Sleep was fruitless, so I got up, pulled on a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt and my tennis shoes and took him outside. The moon was bright in the empty sky and because we were alone I didn't bother with his leash. He followed me down the stairs and across the patch of thin ice at the bottom before crossing the parking lot to the patch of grass where he could stretch and tend to business. I watched the stars and began to hum softly to myself, a song I've known for a very long time but had forgotten about until that moment.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone
calling all angels
calling all angels
we're cryin' and we're hurtin'
and we're not sure why...
then it's one foot then the other
as you step out onto the road
how much weight? how much weight?
then it's how long? and how far?
and how many times before it's too late?
(Jane Siberry, Calling All Angels)

My iPod was still in my jacket pocket, so I pulled it out, found the song and listened, singing softly as Duncan led me across the muddy grass. The streets were silent and pale in the moonlight and I could hear the drip of water from the trees in the park, from all over my small corner of the Front Range it seemed.

Duncan pulled me through the soupy bog to a deep patch of receding snow and looked at me a long time in that wondrous and understanding gaze of his, and as the song's chorus rose up in my ears, he rolled onto his back, his weight cracking the hard top layer, his stick legs reaching for the sky as he wiggled softly back and forth, never taking his eyes from mine.

Calling all angels
calling all angels
walk me through this one
don't leave me alone

And then, as he stood up and leaned his damp body against my legs, I saw the snow angel he'd created for me, shimmering white and blue in the darkness, his warmth still melting into it. The tears came cold and sweet to my cheeks as he turned and led me back home, up the stairs and back inside where the cats met us at the door.

How is it that with such a miraculous companion I must constantly remind myself that I am never, ever alone, that my angel lives and breathes by my side every day of my blessed life?

Brothers

My bed was strangely empty this morning. Typically three cats curl around me in various positions while one big red dog takes his share out of the center, sometimes horizontally, sometimes diagonally. It can be tricky navigating the shoals of Dreamland and on more than one occasions my companions have heard me complain that just once it would be nice to be able to stretch out.

Last night was such a night. They all followed me to bed but at some point during the night Winnie departed to reclaim her familiar post on the back of the couch. Olive decamped to the bathroom where she curled up in the bathtub (which she has only recently discovered and become enamored of, a bizarre but somehow fitting arrangement for my strange, owl-eyed girl). Duncan quite often leaves the bed to crawl beneath it and spend the night snoring, or to cuddle up with his giant Pooh Bear on the fancy bed roll Ken and I bought for him the day after we first brought him home. I was more than a little surprised at my lack of Pip since he rarely leaves my shoulder, where he rests his cheek against mine all night long. Honestly, waking up alone and unfettered was not quite the glorious, magic-of-the-open-road feeling I'd imagined. My small futon seemed lonely and a bit cold, and suddenly bigger than I thought it could.

A quick inspection of the apartment proved me correct on my assumptions about Winnie and Olive, although Olive was not sleeping in the tub but hovering over the drain batting at it with one wet paw. Pip and Dunc were not hard to find at all and when I did I decided we could postpone our morning walk until their highnesses were good and ready.

Snow Day

It started yesterday morning and hasn't stopped yet.

Having been forced to drive in it twice, I was less than thrilled, but Duncan... well, Duncan could care less. Sure his poor tender feet get packed with ice and his long hair collects dense clumps of snow which require a quick rinse in the tub (which he hates but endures because he loves to be toweled off). For him the snow is pure, effervescent rapture.


This morning's snow is deep and wet and difficult to get through, and rises above his shoulders, and yet it doesn't slow him down. His mouth hangs open and he gulps down enormous quantities of the stuff, breathing it back out in heavy clouds and driving it forward by the force of his joy. He is unstoppable, as a squirrel learned this morning when he plowed through a drift and sent it scampering up someone's screen door to avoid being caught.

And when we're not outside he curls up next to me on the arm of the couch, just as the cats taught him when he was a pup. He sits stoically and watches me and makes sure I notice him looking glum and dour and miserable because we're not outside playing in his snow.

Snow

Duncan has spent many a morning sitting in the window near my desk looking down on the yard and the bunnies who roost in the hedges there. Sometimes Winnie will join him and the two will pass the time together content but silent. Winnie claims not to like Duncan, but every now and then when she thinks I'm not looking I'll catch her nuzzling him, or running her cheek across one of his paws.

I take no great pleasure in the snow myself. I am not a skier, I do not snowshoe and it's been years since I built a snowman. I am one hundred percent Summer and need to be coaxed and prodded to spend any time outside in the snow. Duncan, however, can't get enough of it. We're polar opposites in this regard, so to speak. This morning I caught him staring longingly out the window, but the moment he heard me he turned, leapt up, did his chirping, butt wiggle dance and pleaded with me to take him out.

Being a good papa I did, but I didn't enjoy it as much as he did. And the cold has made me feel older than I did just last night. Spring can't come fast enough.