A Walker in the Suburbs

Today we celebrate the birthdays of two eminent beings: Ludwig von Beethoven and Copper the dog. One of them the classical composer whose works revolutionized western music … and the other a mixed-breed canine.

How dare I compare these two? First of all, I love them both. Beethoven is not my favorite composer but he’s definitely in my top ten. His music will be blaring from the radio today, and I will be listening. Copper, though gone almost three years, will always be precious, a dog who filled our lives with joy.

But there are similarities beyond these. Beethoven’s music is powerful; it shakes its fist at fate. Copper was powerful, too. A dog who didn’t know how to stop barking or begging or running away. Isolate the traits that made these similarities possible and I see a mutt of unrealized greatness.

By all reports Beethoven was cantankerous. Copper was, too. While we celebrate Beethoven’s birthday on December 16, we only surmise he was born on this day in 1770 based on his baptismal record. Neither do we know Copper’s date of birth. We celebrated it on the day we acquired him, 12/16/2006.

Beethoven blazed new trails in music, moving us from the Classic into the Romantic period. Copper blazed new trails in the woods. And then there’s the most notable similarity: both Beethoven and Copper went deaf in later years.

Copper did not leave behind some of the most sublime music ever composed. But he did leave memories. I’ll be savoring those today.

The bullfrogs were happy this morning. They bellowed beneath bridges, sang from the banks of reedy ponds. I didn’t see them, but I could imagine their slick skin, their bulging eyes, their camouflage coloring. They might be hard to spot, but their sounds give them away.

They were celebrating the moisture and the damp, joining their voices in thanksgiving, though they may not see it that way. No doubt mating is on their minds.

I’m glad I heard them, happy their voices rose over the barking dogs and the swim meet bullhorn. It’s good to know they’re hopping and croaking. It’s good to know they’re alive.

(A bullfrog birthplace? We often see tadpoles here.)

The fence that was built to keep out the deer apparently provided a safe delivery spot for one doe. Yesterday, this little guy appeared in our garden. We knew enough to leave him alone; his mother would be back for him soon. She must have come for him after dark because there was no sign of him in the morning.

It’s been a strange year for the garden, producing more animals (fawns, cardinals, ants) than flowers. I’m writing it off to lack of deer-proofing and unseasonably damp weather.

What it reminds me of, though, is that nothing is promised to us. April showers don’t always bring May flowers. It’s something we know, but tend to forget — until life provides the proof. Now the garden is a nursery … in more ways than one.

Yesterday, while writing in my “summer place,” a corner of the glass-topped table on the desk, I spied a lizard skittering along the boards. Our corner of Fairfax County is full of wildlife. I routinely see fox and deer, the cries of hawks and pileated woodpeckers fill the skies, and a few weeks ago I saw a wild turkey slowly crossing the main street of our neighborhood, on his way from one patch of woods to another.

But lizards have been in short supply. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one here before.

This little guy brought to mind the subtropical world of southern Florida, where lizards are king. I’ve spent many hours watching their tiny movements, their habit of bowing up and down, as if they’re doing tiny pushups. I bet there’s a scientific term and explanation for this, but I’m too lazy to look it up now.

What I can say is that I will be on the lookout for this fellow. Maybe he will become hawk food … but I hope not. I’d like to see him again. He brings with him a whiff of the faraway.