Happy Birthday Monkeys!

The ides of February are upon us, meaning we are poised in between the birthdays of Christiana and Bella. Christiana turned 20 last Thursday and Bella is counting the days until she turns 8 on Friday. From American Forestry books to American Girl dolls, as their birthday presents indicate and as I’ve come to think of them lately. (Except really what I think is from birth control to Polly Pockets but I’m not going to write that here.) It was only when Bella brought home the obligatory second grade Chinese Zodiac wheel that we realized she and Christiana, being 12 years apart, share the same symbol – the monkey. Now, probably much like any old zodiac regardless of what language it speaks, you could find traits of yourself in every one of the twelve Chinese zodiac characters. But I can say with some certainty that the following monkey traits do, indeed, fit my second and last girls: motivator, improviser, quick-witted, inquisitive, flexible, innovative, problem solver, self-assured, sociable, artistic, polite, dignified, objective, and factual.

I have long described Christiana as one who knows her mind and sets out with a purpose to achieve her goals. I learned a long time ago that when she stepped her self-assured self up to the ice cream counter and decisively ordered pink bubblegum ice cream, no amount of me trying to talk her out of that hideously artificially-colored flavor would work and that, indeed, she would eat every last blaring bit of bubblegum before concluding with a fuchsia-tongued smile. In short, she taught me at a very young age to heed her word. Because she was true to it. And so it was that on her big day last week we headed to the valley to take her to dinner and she chose the restaurant, announcing that she wanted a piece of fresh fish and that is exactly what she ate down to the last little flake.

Meanwhile, back here in yurtville, Bella has planned her own party. And she has already drawn and colored the pictures of she and her guests cavorting happily at the event, even though they haven’t even RSVP’d yet. She is organized and artistic and doesn’t forget a thing, which is why she is the keeper of the grocery list. Last year she went to Automercado with our friend, Wendy, after a sleepover and informed her on every aisle what she needed to buy until finally Wendy said, “Bella, you don’t even live with us.” “I know,” Bella said happily, not skipping a beat, “but you do need apples.” And they did. I have long said if anything happened to me, Bella would take right over and never miss a beat.

I try not to compare my kids and had never really drawn a Venn diagram around these two, but that monkey thing got me thinking. They do, indeed, have a large circle of commonality. Both are very creative and can/could be sent to their rooms to “clean” them and stay for an entire afternoon playing, happily emerging hours later having never picked up one single thing. Bella is the only one wearing my high heels and dresses around here or fully taking advantage of my handbag collection. Recently she emerged from her yurt dressed for work at her new Home Depot job wearing an orange apron that used to belong to Christiana and sporting a giraffe nametag from her summer Bible school - Wild about the Bible or something equally exotic. She was toting Hannah’s new pink tool kit left out of the post-holiday carry-on luggage, a screwdriver being a threat to our national security and all, and sporting plastic high heels to match. When I asked for some remodeling advice, she informed me that, sorry, but she was on her lunch break. And so, as with her sister before her, I just follow along and try not to get in the way, letting my two monkeys plan their own parties, pick their own ice creams, and find their way. From the second year in elementary school to the second year in college, they both stride through life with confidence and a big smile and so far that is working just fine.

K3

PS Yesterday Bella received her birthday card from Grandma Moore and read it to me while we were driving to ballet. 'For a Granddaughter who's amazing, talented, fun-loving, a great sport, a shining star, and most of all . . . a super sweet girl who's loved very much!' "That Grandma sure knows how to pick the perfect card," she said, clearly agreeing with every American Greetings word.

Never Buy a Cat on Sale

I’ve been shopping for over four decades now like every good Born-in-the-USA consumer and I should have learned by now that there are some things that are not a bargain at any price. Apparently, I have not. Since losing Duncan in July we have been half-heartedly scouring Craigslist and the like in search of a new faithful companion. Not a replacement. There aren’t any of those. And so it was that I found myself at the Safe Haven Humane Society one rainy night in November with Bella and Christiana, both of whom are overly sentimental shoppers who say things like “Awww” at every cute thing they see, living or not. Cute, or not.

The first “Awww” creature we encountered at Safe Haven was a fluffy white Malamute puppy with sad brown eyes and a heart condition. It was impossible not to love him, handicap and all. We were drawn into his enclosure like it was our destiny, digging our fingers into his irresistible down and dreaming of wrapping him around us and taking him home. Until one of the many shelter workers roused us from our reverie with a good dousing of cold water words like grooming and mud and every-time-we-take-a-walk. We considered all the dirt as well as the creek that surround our yurt, picturing all that snowy fur turned brown and tangled like March in New England, then gave him one final pat and backed away from all that adorable temptation.

Entering the long kennel room we passed easily by the chihuahuas and every kind of pit bull mix known to man, including the ones named Bella, until we came to rest in front of a cage full of black and white exuberance, three or four puppies tangled up and tumbling over each other, all SO happy to see us. We swayed. Vicki Vale (of Batman fame) quickly became our favorite and when we picked her up she snuggled into our embrace like she was home already while her siblings, Bruce Wayne and the like, chewed on our shoe laces and peed on the floor. We took turns holding Vicki, admiring her serenity and markings, took photos on our phones, and sent them to Andy. He said no. The comic book puppies were an unknown blend of husky and lab and whomever else Trixie, their Mom, had entertained. Trixie, yet another shelter worker informed, was also living at Safe Haven but was currently at the vet being fixed. So we couldn’t get any more information from her on the puppy paternity. We called Andy and his unsentimental voice of reason prevailed. Being any part husky meant they still had a strong hunting instinct and we live with resident herds of elk and deer who regularly sleep and eat in our pastures. Andy was right. We conceded that Vicki was not to be ours and we all parted ways with a whimper.

Next we braved the elements, venturing outside in the rain to check out the older dogs. Nothing we wanted to live with. That left the cat room. Now we are not cat lovers and people who call me Kitty are the bane of my existence, so why we ever even opened that door is questionable. But in we went, dutifully examining the lines of cages along the wall with no real intent and a few errant lower-case “awws.” And that’s when we spotted an attractive sign proclaiming in colorful double letters, “Great Barn Cat.”

Now, back in June when we’d returned from Costa Rica to the yurts, we discovered that we had what you would definitely call a “Great Barn Cat” living somewhere in the stacks of wood piled up in our lower barn. This cat was vaguely Siamese looking but we never got close enough while it lived to know it well. It demanded nothing of us except to be left alone. Our kind of kitty. And clearly “our” cat was, indeed, what this colorful shelter sign also boasted, “A Great Mouser,” as we never fed or watered it even once. We had no particular fondness for each other, that cat and us, our only encounters being a blur of cream-colored fur whizzing by whenever we ventured into our barn to retrieve a gardening tool or a bike. Still, we felt some degree of sadness when Andy discovered it lying near his saw mill one morning in August, dead. Having just lost Duncan, we felt a little bereft. And even though we never invited what we now knew was a he into our lives, his absence left a kind of blurry void.

So seeing that carefully lettered shelter sign posted on the cage of the last cat on the left got us to thinking. And it was on sale.

“We have a barn,” we said to each other.

“We have mice,” we reasoned.

“We’ll take it,” we announced.

Perhaps we were a bit hasty. Perhaps we should have asked more questions. Like when the shelter workers’ eyebrows raised uniformly upon learning that we’d chosen Molly, the Queen of the Cat Room, as they now informed us she was known while processing an inordinate amount of paperwork for one discounted cat. Or when they told us we had one week to return her if things didn’t work out and then let it slip that she’d been returned once already. Or when they hesitated over who would put her in a box and bring her out to us. Or when they warned us not to open the box until we arrived home. But we were committed. And anyway, why should we care? She was going to live in the barn and require nothing from us like her independent predecessor. We paid our $15 and left.

We drove the remaining hour home that dark and rainy night with our new barn cat in her box on Christiana’s lap, complaining loudly. And when we arrived home, Molly sprang from the box and immediately began making herself right at home. “She’s fat,” we said, finally getting our first good look at her. “Is that normal?” we wondered as her belly hung low in front of her hind legs, swaying to and fro as she walked. We knew very little about cats and wondered if it was a tumor. “Ah well, she’ll be getting plenty of exercise soon,” we said while visions of Molly mouse hunting danced in our heads. She was pretty, a tortoise-shell they informed us, with white feet and light green eyes. They’d told us to buy the purple bagged cat food at Costco and sent us home with a starter kit, warning us to feed her only ½ cup a day or she would eat and eat. “No wonder,” we now said, seeing her feline equivalent of a muffin top. And later when I dutifully purchased said Costco-sized bag of food it never even dawned on me just how long that was going to last at ½ cup per day without, say, a whole cat room or a bull mastiff eating it.

They also told us not to let her outside for a couple weeks until she knew her boundaries. But what we quickly discovered was that Molly, the Queen of the Cat Room, had quickly reinvented herself as Molly, Queen of the Yurts. She had no interest in the great outdoors. Or our very nice, mice-filled barn. Neither would she soon forget where she lived. First of all, she was too fat to catch anything except maybe her own tail. And second of all, we had to move quickly ourselves to catch her and toss her out the door if she was ever going to get some fresh air. Molly was perfectly content to stay inside the yurt. Forever. And when we did manage to capture and evict her with encouraging words about our barn, she sat underneath the yurt and meowed. All day. Loudly. Until we let her in again. Or until someone opened the door. Then she was suddenly motivated to move at lightning speed, flashing past us like her predecessor.

Now you might think that upon meowing herself hoarse, Molly would simply accept her fate and head for the barn. She does not. Instead she tries to find a way back into the yurt. Like jumping up on the front door and attempting to turn the door knob. Or leaping up at one of the two mudroom windows and hanging by her claws from the screen. I kid you not. None of her persistence is appreciated by people who live in a canvas house. In fact, people who live in fabric houses should probably not own pets with claws.

The questions we probably should have asked those nice Safe Haven folks are these. How would they know if Molly was a “Great Barn Cat” or a “Great Mouser” if they’d only known her as the Queen of the Cat Room where she’d spent her lazy days indoors eating the Purple-bagged Costco Cat Food? Did they ever hear her sighing and wishing aloud, "If only I had a barn and some nice fat mice to catch?” How did they determine that 1/2 cup of food was enough? Because the purple cat food bag has been shredded by Molly's attempts to increase her portion. And why exactly was Molly brought in the first time? Too noisy, perhaps? How about the second? Customer dissatisfaction? Did she scratch her owners? Refuse to go outside?

Hannah hates cats and threatened to boycott Christmas but relented, keeping a watchful distance. Micah became very good at catching and evicting Molly while he was home for the holidays. We tried to pass her off as Isaiah's birthday present but he was having none of that. And Andy keeps threatening to teach Molly to swim.

"Maybe she’ll go outside when it gets warmer," I reason. "And besides, Bella likes to play with her," I say, even though Molly often switches moods and scratches her.

"Bella can play with her Littlest Pet Shop cats," Andy counters.

"Well, at least wait until all that cat food is gone," I say. That ought to take us to 2013.

One thing is for certain. Molly was no bargain.

K3

For The Love of Money

I never loved money.

But I grew up surrounded by it.

My impressionable adolescent years were spent on my island home in an environment created largely by the rich and even richer—blue bloods who made their living off the imported sweat dripping off the backs of folks like my Irish ancestors who crossed the Atlantic and then criss-crossed our nation with steel rails, guided by the black smoke marking their manifest destiny and filling the New York city coffers of my neighbors. They carved their summer cottages in the graven images of Europe, palatial knock-offs in gold and marble which lined the Bellevue Avenue of my youth where I pedaled my bike beneath the graceful dreadlocks of giant weeping beech branches. Imports, all of us.

So it wasn’t easy for me to be impressed by ordinary wealth—new money, as they call it.

Still, for a time, I was.

I grew up, parked my bike, and headed north to a small, liberal arts college where there were a lot of rich kids. And I fell in love.

I first encountered John Senior when I was sitting on a covered bridge watching orange and red leaves swirl below me in the currents of the Contoocook River which threw its watery arm around our campus like a protective lover. My reverie was interrupted by a rhythmic wooden sound and I turned to see a boy striding towards me with a chunky, carved walking stick I would soon come to know as Half-Step marking his progress. He wore a funky knit hat and a broad, confident grin.

“Hey,” he said, passing by me.

“Hi,” I said, turning back to the blinding sun in my eyes and then around to watch his retreat. In and out of my life, just like that. And that might have been the end. But it wasn’t. Not yet.

I saw him loping around campus but not up close again until one day when I was out running along a wooded path that followed our river and there he was again, his long brown hair unmistakably swinging my way with Half-Step setting his pace.

“Hey,” he said again, his grin closing the gap between us, “What’s your name?”

“Kelly,” I said, slowing to a jog to answer.

He might have asked me what dorm I lived in, I don’t recall, but I do remember the knock on my door soon afterwards and a voice, “Phone’s for you.” In those days we had one hall phone for everyone that hung on the wall—no booth, no privacy.

“Hey, it’s John,” a voice said, “from the river?”

“Hi,” I said, my heart flipping around like the coiled phone cord in my hands which delivered his voice again to my ear.

“Do you wanna go to the movies Friday night?”

Yes, I sure did. I don’t remember what movie we saw, but I do remember there were some scary parts that had me diving for the safety of his shoulder and we exited the theater with his arm wrapped around me like the river.

From there, our romance marched forward in full steps and soon I was spending much more time in his dorm room than in my own. When his room-mate failed to return to school after Spring Break, we put the twin beds together and I took his place more or less permanently.

John was the life of the party—the kind of guy they warn you not to marry. His crooked grin charmed everyone he met and his confident charisma made him the center of attention, always. When he turned his wide smile and deep brown eyes on me, there was no escape; his dark eyebrows blocked all exits. John was outgoing and generous, attracting a large circle of friends. There was no capturing him, even though I became his number one girl. He was all kinetic energy, always on the move, always ready for fun. Even when he sat down, his foot shook incessantly, ready for its next move.

I fell hard for him and there would be no easy way back up. He wrote me poetry and played songs with lyrics intended for me. We were young, strong, and smooth-skinned and I loved the feeling of his long fingers entwined in mine. Half-Step was our constant companion while we ambled through the forest, kicking our Bean boots along woodsy trails which soon filled with snow. When winter released its icy grip we threw open the sunroof and drove the countryside in his blue Honda like we'd just been born. John introduced me to Tanqueray and tonic and was rarely without a beer or drink in hand.

Our freshman year ended and we parted ways, he back to his home and me to a summer waitressing job in my neighboring state. It was too far and soon I moved over to his state and into the sprawling suburban home of his mother. John came from a trust-funded life of privilege, a boarding school brat from a world I had encountered on my own island but did not know intimately. I studied it like a refugee from my firmly middle class background. He was purportedly an heir to a Poppin-fresh fortune that would make any dough boy giggle. New money. His friends liked to party. Hard. It was the late 70’s and recreational drugs were not uncommon. We spent the last carefree days of summer swimming in his pool, hanging out with his friends on their estates or at Lake Quassapaug, and hosting a wild birthday bash for him. His last.

School bells threatened and we choked out tense and tearful goodbyes as I flew off for a semester abroad in England where I was summoned out of my very first class—a Dickens seminar. A phone call. For me. “Kelly,” his mother said, “Johnny’s dead.” On Labor Day three hired thugs had kidnapped him, shot him three times, rolled him in a rug, and dumped him in the East River as part of a convoluted criminal-plot-gone-bad drama. For a few hundred bucks, rum-drinking strangers had casually killed him. “Wrapping up loose ends,” they explained. Indeed. Any love of money I ever had evaporated.

I was 18 years old and cried the proverbial river until the innocence of my youth swirled away from me in the currents of distant memories. I mourned for John, for myself, for the We that we’d tried to be. I mourned for the smooth body I'd loved so completely, violated so cruelly, so violently; it broke my heart. I managed to keep up my studies but quietly switched my major to mourning John Senior. Walking for miles and miles thru the English countryside, I became a shadow of my former self, sitting for hours in damp stone churches which were always blessedly open and empty. My fingers clutched at empty-handedness while I wandered through the ancient graveyards marking their exits, wondering at all the stories, all the broken hearts which lay buried beneath my feet. I spent a lot of time gazing at the sky and pondering the meaning of life. I could almost believe that John’s unbounded energy and zest for life were a sign we’d missed that he was not to be here for very long—live fast; die young. But it still hurt.

I finished the semester with John’s Cheshire grin filling my thoughts and his death enshrouding me and when I returned home, I transferred schools and began a new field of study.

One day, John’s mother came to visit.

“I brought you a present,” she said. I followed her out to the parking lot where she led me, smiling, to a brand new silver car shining there in the winter sun, orange letters printed across its front doors proclaiming it to be “Le Car.”

“This is for you,” she said. A car? I translated silently.

“Um, thank you,” I said, understanding the French but not fully comprehending this unlikely gift.

She hugged me and said, “I didn’t get you the stereo package; maybe your parents would like to buy that for you.”

It was so surreal. My parents had two kids in college and two more at home and no interest in buying me a car stereo. But I nodded, yes, maybe they would, because my parents would definitely want me to be polite. I could not even fathom telling them that I’d just been given a new car, much less asking if they wanted to provide the soundtrack. I was saddened that somehow she thought this all made sense, this for that, but I guess in her world it did. Le Car was definitely a step up from the red ’64 Dodge Dart with black and white checked bucket seats I manually steered around my island home when not riding my bike. I was thankful to have a sparkling new car instead. But still.

Weeping, John's mom handed me the keys and said, “Thank you for loving my son.”

I did not love cars. I did, however, love that John Knowlton Senior. But nobody needed to thank me for that.

~ K3

Fifty is the new Forty

I’ve been 50 for an entire day or so now and therefore, like many Americans, am ready to start dispensing the wisdom of my decade even though I am basically unqualified and inexperienced. Fifty is the new forty, I’ve decided. I never felt 40 when my calendar flipped from 39 but now I am ready to embrace it fully, hindsight being what it is and all. So here is what I know thus far.

You know you’re fifty when:

1. The Fred Meyer check-out gal asks if you qualify for the Senior citizen discount. And the only thing worse than that is that you don’t. And when you tell your mother about it she informs you that it’s because you have “The Moore” wrinkles.
2. Getting a couch for a birthday present excites you. A couch. For sitting on.
3. A man at the Laundromat informs you while you are loading the dryer that he is “legally blind” and looking for a live-in “helper” and that he lives in a very nice one-bedroom house and is hoping to find someone who is 50. Or 60. And you don’t even realize he is hitting on you until you tell your husband about the encounter later. And you actually compliment him on his vehicle. Which is a wheel barrow parked outside.
4. You start universally hitting “I accept” to all terms and conditions on all electronic devices because you simply can’t read what it says and life’s too short anyway and you don’t feel like getting up to find your cheaters (which are yet another thing.)
5. You quit reading “50 things to do when you turn 50” after one essay on aging gracefully and accepting your new wrinkles followed by another encouraging a little nipping and tucking entitled, “Put your best face forward!”
6. Your AARP card comes in the mail and you start eyeballing motor homes and reading up on the national parks.
7. You should be outside taking a walk but it looks cold and you are in the middle of an exciting Words with Friends game and you are attempting to take advantage of your free app download for your Blackberry (I accept, I accept…)
8. You spend more time watching salmon spawn than, well...
9. You stop buying in bulk.
10. You have the flattest tummy in the OB/GYN waiting room and you’re not necessarily thrilled by that.
11. You apply on a vacancy for the job you once had and are told you are no longer qualified.
12. You actually think Words with Friends is exciting and justify your addiction by thinking it will help boost your brain power, which is another thing you suddenly think about.
13. Your wedding ring band has been worn so thin it can't be repaired one more time.
14. You have friends who are 60 and 70 and even 80 and your 20-year-old friends are your daughters.
15. You post a blog (or email or make a phone call), get in the shower, and think of at least three things you forgot to say, including that you know you're fifty when you have washed your hair with body wash and washed your body with conditioner...
    

K3

RIP Mr. George Richardson

Mr. Richardson was a summer fixture for me as a child, more constant than sunscreen (which we didn’t have). I never knew him as a fall, winter, or spring guy. For all I knew, he returned each summer to Pocasset like a loon. Like we did.

With his classic flat-top crew-cut (his hair was always white) and his buck teeth, Mr. Richardson (we never called him “George” in those days) delivered our boat motor each summer and drove the silver ski boat for hours and hours every afternoon, teaching us all to ski with his characteristic favorite advice. You know what he always said. Nothing. And it worked. We all learned to ski under his silent, patient tutelage.

But the most fun to be had with Mr. Richardson was in the evenings. Rushing through dinner, we let the screen door slam behind us when the red truck appeared outside our cabin. Before Mr. Richardson could lift our garbage can off the nail in the tree, we were in the back of his truck, ready to do the garbage run with him, collecting from every cabin and riding all the way to the dump down the road where we hoped to see something exciting, like a rat. Summer just didn’t get any better than that..

Karen and I grew to be best summer friends and I spent a lot more time around Mr. Richardson. So I was lucky enough to discover that behind his thick glasses were twinkling blue eyes. And I got to go horned pout fishing with him in the evenings, sitting in Jennings Stream at dusk with Janet, Karen, and our green drop lines, then pulling the barbed fish up, left and right, while Mr. Richardson patiently took each and every one off our hooks with a gloved and practiced hand. I felt privileged to be in that boat. Mr. Richardson, as usual, rarely said a word.

To see Mr. Richardson was to see a man whose work was never done, but who was never in a hurry. He slowly and purposefully went about doing, well, everything there was to do. When I try to hear his voice, mostly all I hear is a meaningful silence. Followed, sometimes, by a slow, “ayuh.”

It seems that my summer innocence ended around the same time Mr. Richardson became George. It just hasn’t been the same around the beach for many years now without George quietly going about his ways. And even though I know that time marches on and change is inevitable, still, I miss those days. I miss those colorful beach chairs that George built and maintained. I miss that silver ski boat and the long line of skiers waiting to be towed—on skis, not tubes. I miss the red truck and those horned pout and grabbing leaves on the narrow road, which I also miss, and I even miss the dump. I have missed Mr. Richardson for many years now. And now I will miss George too.

Today is George's funeral in Wayne, Maine in the church where we were married 23 years ago. It is the same church where our son, Noah, was baptized 15 years ago and then memorialized a year later. It is an altar we know well. So even though we are 3000 miles away from George's service today, still, we are there in spirit. Rest in Peace, Mr. George Richardson, Lord knows you’ve earned it.

K3

Still Nine-Eleven

Isaiah’s chubby fingers fondled my neck as I strolled along the beach, my almost two-year-old riding behind in his blue backpack. The air suffused our skin with September warmth and the sky blanketed us in blue, the ocean reflecting its beauty with a peacefulness that would soon be shattered. Later, I would recall this tranquility and remember another day twelve years earlier when, like today, an unusual stillness had permeated the air as I took my lunchtime walk along the San Francisco waterfront. The bay had glistened calmly and the gulls were silent. The earth was holding its breath but we didn’t discern its foreboding. In a few short hours it would exhale a 7.1 Richter scale “OHM,” blowing buildings off their foundations and dangling cars and passengers beneath buckled bridges. This day would likewise bring a bustling city to its knees, forcing folks to shed their coats of isolationism and embrace one another like small-town neighbors seeking comfort and reassurance. But this day would not be defined by Mother Nature. This day would be remembered for Human Nature. And I was preoccupied by my own struggle with life and death.

I kissed my son’s fingers as the gentle Atlantic caressed her baby sands, the comforting weight of my chattering bundle an antidote for the loss of his brother, our ninth baby, due to arrive that very day but who had died mysteriously in March. I’d headed to the beach that morning to think about the short life held four months within the depths of my body and which remained in my soul, like a tiny shard of glass not yet tumbled smooth by time. I smiled at the glimmer of hope now known to me by flutter kicks in my womb and prayed all would go well this time. The gulls screamed overhead, sensing no earthly need for silence.

We concluded our walk and drove towards a doctor’s appointment with my radio tuned to its typical NPR, my meditation interrupted by breaking news unfolding a mere hundred miles away in Manhattan. I listened, stunned, as the familiar voice told how a plane was engulfing thousands in a jet-fueled hell while the beautiful blue day shone all around us. I called my husband who turned on the tv as another plane struck the second World Trade Tower. “People are jumping out of windows,” he said.

I continued driving to my appointment, life marching on for the rest of us. “Did you hear about New York?” I asked the ultrasound technician as she scanned my belly, casually chatting, not expecting any more disasters. I should have known better. My three-month-old swimmer had stopped kicking inside of me and now lay crumpled on the bottom of my womb. Like the day, we all finally became very still. Screaming gulls filled the void where a heart used to beat as people stepped out of windows, flying off to meet my baby.

Duncan Munchkin Kittel

11/17/01 – 7/27/11

Who loved: hot dogs, peanut butter, coconuts, snow, bones, tennis balls, other dog’s toys

And hated: fireworks, loud noises, delivery trucks, mailmen, people touching his ears, that old woman who walked on Second Beach with a white hat

Duncan was born the runt of his litter to Tatum Smallwood on the coast of Oregon and became ours as a promise fulfilled to Christiana with the vision of a mid-sized dog. (He never knew his father.) When we moved to Rhode Island from Salem in 1999 we left our dog, Dude, behind with Andy’s parents and Christiana begged us to let her have one of the first-grade classroom quails. Andy said no but promised her she could get a new dog after we settled in. He flew across country the following December and brought her promise home in time for Christmas and snow. From then on, Duncan always loved snow and would bury his nose in it and sneeze. As we traveled home from the airport we tried on names and asked, “What would be a good east-coast name?” Dunkin Donuts being the quintessential representation of New England, we answered, “Dunkin Munchkin!” And so he was.

Duncan chewed on our stairs and scratched our floors, growing in our hearts and family and vastly exceeding everyone’s expectations until he reached 110 pounds. He was one year younger than Isaiah and they grew up together with Isaiah riding him like a horse. He went to puppy training at the Potter Shelter and passed K-9 training and when we moved to Portugal he stayed with Matt, his trainer, spending a lot of time in Vermont that winter playing in the snow and sneezing with Matt’s other dogs. When we returned, Duncan was five and graced the cover of the Newport Daily News in full color walking Second Beach on a winter day with Andy and I during the controversial leash law debate. He had no leash. Duncan spent many, many happy hours walking with us on the beaches of Rhode Island, Oregon, and Costa Rica chasing tennis balls (each ball lasted only one walk), sticks and coconuts.

Duncan ruled Mohawk Drive, often laying in the middle of the road and blocking traffic. Our yard was littered with his collection of stolen pet toys from the neighborhood animals. His morning routine consisted of walking the kids to the bus and waiting for the bus driver, Gene, to give him a dog treat. After waving goodbye he trotted over to the horse barn and played with the dogs that lived there. Once when he wore the cone of shame for some minor surgery these folks signed it as if it were a cast and it was then that we began to realize that Duncan knew everyone in the ‘hood,’ including folks whom we did not. He spent his days between our house and Jack and Kathy’s across the street where he tortured their cats, Grace and Buddy. When the hour approached each day for Don and Rosemary to come home, Duncan headed across the street to await his daily treat from them. He knew everyone and their schedules and was doubtlessly more popular than were we.

When we moved to Costa Rica, Duncan drove with Andy and Micah in the Black Panther from Rhode Island to Playa Conchal, riding in the back seat as their security guard. It was in the tropics that he developed his obsession with coconuts, ripping them open with his teeth, no easy feat, until he came to the nut inside. He waited all day for someone to throw them to him and never tired of retrieving it. Sometimes he dropped them in the pool and sat and stared at them for hours. He was relentless and could carry them, whole and heavy, to the beach where we would do our best to shot-put all 20 pounds of them into the ocean for him to swim after. He loved to swim in the warm, salty Pacific and we always laugh about the time he was chasing a ball around the pool and he slipped and fell into the deep end. When it came time for us to leave, Duncan flew solo internationally on Continental to Oregon where the Smallwoods picked him up and he hung with his ornery mom until we arrived to build the yurts. A few months later we went up the river to a bonfire and brought Duncan along to see his mom, thinking she would be happy to see her son. She was not, barking at him like he was an intruder.

Duncan was a great friend to G’ma Kittel while we lived with her and she spoiled him with treats and let him sleep in the house. When we finished building the yurts and moved up the creek he made himself at home and usually slept underneath the yurt right beneath where our bed was. Any time we arrived home he came out from under the shade of the yurt to greet us, running alongside the car as we came around the yurts and parked. He was always a very happy fellow and befriended everyone he met. He took to sunning himself in the middle of the forest service road just above our yurts which is where that the Lincoln County dog officer picked him up. It was then that he earned his title, “a dog at large” while serving his time behind bars, even though Andy attempted to inform them that he was simply “a large dog.”

Duncan was diagnosed with bone cancer as we packed up to come home from our second year in Costa Rica in June. When the kids and I arrived on Father’s Day he was so happy to see us and still managed to walk the road with us. But the cancer spread rapidly and he must have been in a lot of pain as the tumors grew daily before our eyes and his hind leg became useless. Still, he rarely complained. He visited Christiana in RI in a dream and told her he could wait for her arrival at the end of July. And he did. He waited for her in the shade under the yurt, gradually coming out only to eat. His friend, Mocha, visited him daily and kept him company. Christiana arrived and Duncan rallied enough to take one last evening stroll with us down along the creek. The next day we loaded him into the van for his final trip to the beach. He made it down the ramp to where we all collapsed in the warm, soft sand and pet him. He watched the other dogs playing and even socialized with a few of them as we made our way back to the car for the sad trip to the vet. The vet came out to the car and relieved Duncan of all of his pain while reciting the poem, “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful, the Lord God made them all.”

Duncan’s pain was erased and ours began. He left us with sand in our ears and tears streaming down our faces for our great and terrible loss. We brought his body home and laid him to rest in a large hole under a gnarled apple tree, scattering wildflowers in the freshly turned earth. A moss-covered crook in the branch juts out over the foot of his grave and it is lovely to sit in and swing your feet. It is Bella’s favorite place to climb to and practice her jumping off. Countless times in the ten lovely years that Duncan was ours I would find myself on his tail end as he greeted one friend or another, bearing the brunt of his enthusiasm unhappily as he smacked me with the strength of his strong appendage. Duncan lived the motto, “Wag More, Bark Less.” Now we will sit on a mossy cushion watching the flowers bloom and blanket our beloved Duncan, wishing forever to complain so again.