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Author: Anne Cassidy

Mourning Copper

Mourning Copper

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When a human being dies there are rituals and ceremonies, ways to process the passing. When a pet dies, not so much. But I’ve been touched beyond measure by the calls and messages from family and friends that have comforted us these last several days. 

The outpouring heartens me — and tells me how important animals are to us. It reminds me that we homo sapiens are not alone in this world, that we share it with many creatures, and that we could do worse than  look to them for a model of how to live. 

Copper did not complain in his final days. He suffered silently and took life as it came. Yes, he could be silly and rambunctious. Yes, he tested our patience at times. But you always knew where you stood with him. He was always completely and utterly himself. 

So just as we grieve people by recalling their uniqueness, what they brought to the world and how we might emulate it, so do I mourn Copper. 

Copper Capehart: 2005-2023

Copper Capehart: 2005-2023

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He was a ball of fur on legs, a streak of black and white, contrast in motion. Copper was our daughter’s Christmas present, the dog she had dreamed of for years, and he was running away from us as fast as his little legs could carry him. He had slipped out of his collar and was making a break for the territory. He would do this often in the coming years.

That first escape was a shock because we had just picked him up from the shelter. Later escapades were less surprising but more terrifying. We knew by then that he had no fear of cars and we imagined the worst every time he got away.

But ever so gradually he settled down. He used his powerful shoulders to dash down the deck stairs instead of catapulting himself over the couch. He bared his teeth to smile instead of bite. He decided he would stay here a while.

Seventeen years later, time finally caught up with our dear pup. Today was his final escape, and darned if we didn’t engineer it ourselves. But only because we loved him so much.

Rest in peace, Copper. We will never forget you.

Walking’s Worth

Walking’s Worth

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If I ever needed proof of walking’s worth I got it yesterday. A sad day, as the last have been, but out on the trail, the rhythm and the movement brought me around.

It was good to be outside, to make my way past the tennis courts, around several small ponds and then down the long straightaway through the Franklin Farm meadow. 

It was only 45 minutes on my way to the grocery store, but sometimes, that’s enough.

Familiarity

Familiarity

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Some light rain, the sky a washed-out gray, tree limbs a study in contrast. I look outside as if at another world. The days have turned inward for me, as our dear dog Copper is ailing. 

It’s a comfort to glimpse the sparse azaleas, the ragged hollies. Even the open space where the tall oak stood is familiar now.

I know these places, these absences. My eyes rest easily on them, until I look inside again. 

Sharing the Trail

Sharing the Trail

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The Capital Crescent Trail. A Monday afternoon that felt like a Sunday afternoon. A jumble of humanity — and mammal-anity, too, since there were plenty of dogs on hand. 

Without realizing it, I went into auto mode. That’s “auto” as in automobile, glancing over my left shoulder before “changing lanes”  Cyclists use the trail, too, and they don’t always sound their bells in warning.

Sharing the trail sometimes means walking defensively. 

Forty-Five

Forty-Five

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The outdoor thermometer needs a new battery. For the last four days it has recorded the temperature as 45. That’s 45 night or day, sunny or cloudy, morning or afternoon. 

It has me thinking about 45 — the middle-ness of it, its commodiousness. Want winter? Forty-five will do. Scarves and gloves aren’t out of place in the mid-40s. If you live in warm climes and are looking for an excuse to take your wool sweater out of mothballs, 45 provides it.

And yet, 45 can go warmer, too. You don’t need a hat in 45, for instance.  And if you’re moving briskly through space, which I often am, 45 can feel like 55 in a jiffy. 

If your thermometer must be stuck, then, it could do worse than to be stuck at 45. 

Short Order

Short Order

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I’m thinking about Asheville again, especially Sunday morning when we ate at Five Points Diner. It was rainy and cold and a little early to show ourselves at the Biltmore. We needed a place to be for an hour or so, and our Airbnb host said Five Points was where the locals ate.

She was right. There were so many locals that we had to wait half an hour to be seated. And once we were, it was at the counter. 

It had been a while since I sat at a counter, tucked into the buzz and clatter of food preparation. The short-order cook never stopped moving. He manipulated the spatula like a symphony orchestra conductor wields a baton, cracking eggs one-handed with a firm stroke followed by a forceful toss of the shells into the trash bin. 

“Cooked in Sight. Must be Right” read the sign on the wall. I’d have to agree. 

Before the Rain

Before the Rain

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On a woods walk yesterday there was not exactly a traffic jam, but there were more people than usual. 

“It’s not raining … yet,” said a tall man in a lightweight jacket. (You could get away with one of those, though I was donned in parka and gloves.) 

It must have been the threat of showers that drove us out and into the forest, one last dash before the deluge.

This morning the drops move out and the wind moves in. I foresee a basement walk for me this morning. 

(A photo from the Blue Ridge, not my neighborhood stream valley park.)

Too Soon!

Too Soon!

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Warm winters are always a treat, and so far we seem to be in for one. But I worry when I spot green shoots pushing through the soil or spy the creamy center of a Lenten rose already taking shape amidst the brown leaves from last fall’s raking. 

Lenten roses are some of the earliest plants in the garden. But January 12th? 

Go back to sleep, I tell the plant, treating it like a still-drowsy baby rising too soon from a nap. Slumber on for a few more weeks, until we know the world is safe for you. 

A Sunset, An Intersection

A Sunset, An Intersection

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Asheville is a small city with big scenery,  including a road called Town Mountain Drive. I drove it by accident the other day on the way to see the sunset, which was stunning. 

The road was a different matter, winding up and up and up, mildly terrifying in spots, especially for the cars on the outside, but an adventure just the same.

I read later that Town Mountain Drive connects directly with the Blue Ridge Parkway, so this morning (back in Virginia) I looked up the two roads on a map. And sure enough, they intersect, at the exact same spot where we parked for our hike, Craven Gap.