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Victory Lap

Victory Lap

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Copper is an old doggie now who has twice torn his ACL. He gets around fine most of the time but is stiff after long sleeps and odd twists. Consequently, he has developed a reticence for going up or down the eight wooden deck stairs that provide access to the back yard with all of its canine potty potential. 

This, of course, has become an issue for the humans in Copper’s life, who have been known to lure him down the steps with treats, bouncing balls and plain old cajoling.

Most mornings, Copper makes it up and back without encouragement, prompted by urgency, I suppose. But lately he’s taken to celebrating this once-routine accomplishment by bursting through the back door and running around the house. 
I know that we humans must avoid the tendency to anthropomorphize our pet’s behaviors, but it’s hard not to see this as a victory lap.  Once again, Copper has prevailed over stiff joints and old age. He’s made it down and back up again. He has triumphed. And surely this is worth a little celebration. 
Empty Nest

Empty Nest

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Yesterday there was much fluttering and chirping in the garage as a bevy of Carolina wrens flew in and out the window. For the second or third year in a row Mama Wren had nested on an upper shelf full of old vases, tucking her abode in between a green vase and a clear one, using the shelf in between as a patio of sorts.

The fledglings must have been practicing their first moves over the last few days, when there seemed a confusing preponderance of bird life in and around the garage. There were suddenly wrens everywhere: in the holly trees, at the bird bath, at the feeder and the suet block.

Now that the nest is empty, I climbed up to take a look. How still and silent and abandoned it looked. One fact struck me: Unlike human nests, which empty and refill many times over a lifetime, when bird’s nests empty … they stay that way — at least for the season.

Newborn Fawn

Newborn Fawn

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On my walk this morning I spotted what I first thought was a pile of speckled leaves but which on closer examination turned out to be a newborn fawn.

The little thing was curled up in a ball and trembling, his big eyes staring up at me as I walked toward him. I kept my distance, not knowing if mama was nearby, talked to him gently, visions of The Yearling and feeding him from a bottle in mind.

This was midway through my walk, but I thought about the little guy all the way to the end of the street and back, wondering if he would still be there on my return. He was — so I called Animal Control, which informed me that mother deer often leave their babies in a “safe spot” and return from them in a few hours.

Since this “safe spot” was in clear view of passerby, I made a sign asking neighbors not to disturb him. But when I went to check on him a few minutes later, the little guy had scampered into the woods to get out of the rain.

In my rush to protect him, I forgot to snap a photo, so I found this picture online (it’s exactly what he looked like). In a few weeks, this little tyke will be ravaging my garden, but for now, all I wanted to do was take care of him.

Wild Things

Wild Things

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On yesterday’s walk I marveled at the wildflowers — the daisies and clover and honeysuckle — how they hemmed the sidewalk along West Ox where I was huffing and puffing in the late afternoon humidity.

Last night, I fell asleep to a chorus of frog song, as the critters enjoyed a dousing in the thunderstorms that rolled through our area after dark.

Then this morning, Copper and I saw a fox cross the road in front of us. The creature trotted confidently through our neighbor’s yard, turning his head occasionally to stare at us, as if to ask, what are you doing here?

We live in a tame suburb of Washington, D.C. — but we are surrounded by wild things. And yes, they make everything groovy.


(A tip of the hat to the Troggs and their great one-hit wonder.) 

Running Start

Running Start

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Animals, in their vigor and innocence and lack of self-regard, often hold some deep and true lessons for humans. I was thinking of this today while watching Copper climb the deck stairs. He doesn’t do them slowly and gradually, but quickly — and only with a running start.

There must be a physiological reason for running starts, something in the motion of muscles and mobility of tendons. But the psychological component is large, too.

There are the running starts that precede a dive off the high board, the quick steps that introduce a tumbling run — and then there is that scene I’ve always loved from “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” where Paul Newman and Robert Redford dash and then leap off the cliff into the roaring stream below to escape their pursuers.

The running start is not always easy — I can see Copper pause at the stairs, as if to gather his energy before the effort. But there is much to be said for it: how it screws up our courage, helps us hew to our original intentions, how it commits us to action.

Good Morning

Good Morning

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A morning rinsed and spun-dry, cleansed by thunderstorms in the night and a cool breeze in the morning. Whereas yesterday was about humidity and heavy possibility, today is quick on its feet, ready to move into the month, into this strange new almost-summer that is upon us.

In the garden, the irises are prepping for their appearance, narrow buds on the Siberian ones and plump buds on the others. The inside birds are singing in the brightness, having spent some of yesterday with heads tucked and wings folded. They are like little barometers. You can almost mark the weather by them, so tied are they to the world outside.

As for the mammals in the house, they have slept late, as they are wont to do these days.


(I snapped this photo about 10 days ago, when the dogwood and azaleas were still in their prime.) 

Missing the Derby

Missing the Derby

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For the first time since 1945 there was no Kentucky Derby on the first Saturday in May. There were no thoroughbreds thundering down the back stretch at Churchill Downs. There were, I hear, some fans — many wearing fancy hats — who couldn’t stay away. They appeared, crowned and masked, to traipse around the track and take photos of vacant betting windows and empty paddocks.

We’ve lost many of our traditional markers this spring. No tournament basketball in March, no first day of baseball in April. And now … no Derby in May — to be followed by no Preakness or Belmont, either, at least for the time being.

Of all the pain, sadness and disruption brought on by this pandemic this is hardly the greatest. But for this transplanted Kentuckian, who has never missed a Derby either live (twice) or televised (every other time), it was a loss indeed.

Elevated Apes

Elevated Apes

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“It is the same shabby-genteel sentiment, the same vanity of birth which makes men prefer to believe that they are degenerated angels, rather than elevated apes.”  — William Winwood Reade

I thought of this quotation while on a recent walk with Copper. The little guy is old now and seems to have lost most of his hearing and much of his sight. But there’s nothing wrong with his nose. He must retain most of the 300 million olfactory receptors dogs are reputed to have because he seems to enjoy sniffing now more than ever.

But he’s not the only one. Every day on our strolls together (and on my solo walks), I take a deep whiff of lilac. Say what you will about stopping to smell the roses, it’s the lilacs I walk across the street to inhale.

Savoring their delicious aroma gives me a hint of the pleasure dogs take in their own frequent sniffing. It is, then, a unifying activity, one that reminds me that we are “elevated apes” rather than “degenerated angels.”


(I first read this quotation in the book Love, Sunrise and Elevated Apes, by Nina Leen, a volume I treasure for its wisdom and photography.) 

Bounding into the Future

Bounding into the Future

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Copper and I reached the gate at the top of our deck stairs this morning at exactly the same moment that a four-point buck landed in our yard. He had jumped over the fence, trotted down the slight slope and paused in his foraging, as if listening to a faraway call.

I’ve become quite inured to the deer around here. They eat the day lilies and even the impatiens, if there’s nothing else. They cause auto accidents and are responsible for several dents in our cars through the years.

But seeing the buck this morning, so young and strong, stopped me in my tracks. I stared at him, mesmerized, and he stared back. He was beautiful, a messenger from a wild world. And indeed, in some cultures deer are sacred, a symbol of death and rebirth on account of their antlers, which they shed and regrow.

How perfect to see the deer on this day, which is itself a passageway to another world, another decade. I took the fellow as a good omen. And he — since he disappeared with a flash of his white tail — is not around to correct me on this.


(The stag I saw wasn’t white, but he was noble. Photo: Wikipedia)

Gaudete!

Gaudete!

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Yesterday was the Third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday, with rose-colored vestments and the theme of … rejoice!

And rejoice I shall, starting with today, the birthday not only of Beethoven but also of our own sweet doggie, Copper.  To celebrate the former, I drove to Metro (through sleet and freezing rain) to the sounds of the lovely Archduke Trio, which made the drive almost bearable.

To celebrate the latter, we had a celebration over the weekend, complete with steak and cake. We sang a song and lit a candle and played with the little guy, who had somehow found the squeak toy I bought him and pulled it out of a shopping bag. Can he be smarter than we think? You never know…

Gaudete and happy birthday, birthday boys!