Furry Friends

A Glimmer of Hope

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

My recent walks have not been philanthropic. I’ve had to do it, and thus it feels like work. Joe broke his ankle, so the walking of three dogs multiple times a day has fallen to me. I’m cranky and not proud of it.

Recent snowstorms and frigid weather have kept things hidden. Though some things are unseen, they still remain. A recent thaw exposed a used coffee cup, fallen leaves, and a plethora of pine needles beneath a large tree. Things will come to the surface.

The cold weather returned today, reminding me that winter remains. As do the large snow piles that still block access to the sidewalks, causing pedestrians to enter the roadway to get by.

I admit that I haven’t looked up often-enough these days. But sometimes there’s a glimmer of hope in the dried-out grass. Today I spotted it in this crocus, so narrow, so frail, that I was unable to get a clear photo. But it was there and I felt it was just for me.

I sense a change in the air. The earlier sunrise. The tinge of yellow where forsythia will soon bloom. My neighbor digging in her garden. Glimmers of hope.

Just in Case

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 12, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I scrubbed the hummingbird feeder and filled it with fresh nectar over a week ago. Since that time, not one has come. I knew they wouldn’t. I knew they had left, but I did it just in case.

Years ago, when my daughter bought her own house and moved out, I continued to set the table with four dishes, at first instinctually, and then, just in case.

Last times are hard whether we know it’s goodbye, or whether we realize their loss sometime later. When was the last time I held Rockland’s hand while crossing the street? I had taken, for a while, to writing things down—just in case. But now I purpose to notice and simply enjoy the moments.

This morning, I listened to the caws of Blue Jays, sipped my cooling coffee, watched Graycie resting on a chair, and Ivy sleeping on the love seat on my screened porch.

The hummingbird feeder remains empty of visitors while the nearby zinnias continue to flourish. I could take down the feeder and bring it in for the winter, but I leave it a while longer.

Just in case.

Meeting Virginia

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Aug 20, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

It’s why I walk.

I met Virginia today. More accurately, I met her a couple of years ago before I got sick, but I don’t think she remembers me. She was standing by her front door and I had picked up her newspaper and handed it to her so she wouldn’t have to walk down the three steps to gather it herself. I had seen her neighbor do it for her, so now when I see her paper on the wet grass or on her front walkway or even at the curb near the street, I pick it up, fold it, and slip it into the entry door handle. That way, all she has to do is open the screen door of her front porch, reach to her left and retrieve her paper.

Virginia is 95 years old. She lives alone, but does not appear lonely. Today, I was a half block away from her home when I saw her navigating her front steps to get the newspaper. I hurried along with Franklin, crossing the street, but she had already reached the paper and with the use of her cane and side banister, was already walking back up the steps to her porch door. I was a house away when I said, “Good morning, Virginia! You beat me to it today!”

“So, you’re the one!” she said. “I didn’t know who it was that was bringing up my paper. I wanted to write a note and leave it on the door saying, ‘Thank you!’” She stood upright and her white hair was combed neatly. She was already dressed for the day, and on this cooler morning, wore a white sweater that fit her beautifully. She invited me to come in and I could think of nothing better.

Franklin waited on the enclosed porch while Virginia took me into her living room. She turned on every lamp in the room. The walls were pink and she noted that while the house was built in the 1930s, the walls still had no cracks in them. She went through a litany of colors that the walls had been painted over the years, but seemed content with the current shade. The couch was hers; the chairs were all given to her by family members who had no more use for them. She said it with a smile.

She took me into each room: the kitchen with its large pantry and oversized dining table; the bedroom which was formerly two rooms, but when her daughter moved out, she had it made into one larger room with two clothes closets. I noticed that her bed was made and she pointed out that she’s made her bed every day since she was seven or eight years old. Her routine was to get up, make the bed, wash up, get dressed, and put on earrings. She used to work for the local board of education and was accustomed to dressing up.

She and her husband moved here when she was 31. She says it’s an easy house to live in. It’s where she raised her four children—one of whom died of dementia. She invited me to sit, but I needed to get back to my walk with Franklin. She told me to stop anytime if I needed a drink or to use the bathroom.

I gathered up Franklin and stepped outside of Virginia’s home. We continued on the downhill slope of Brandywine Boulevard, past Tom who called out to me to pick some figs—they ripen a little at a time and you have to get to them. I returned a call to my three-year-old granddaughter who called while I was at Virginia’s. She and my daughter call me on her way to school. The sound of her voice is music to my soul.

I looked from Franklin to the sky to the cars bustling by. To the buses on their practice routes before school begins next week. I look at the lawns and bushes and peeled bark of sycamore trees. And, I wonder about the people I pass—the ones I can see and the ones behind closed doors. The ones like Virginia.

Sunday: Birds, Blooms, and Old Dogs

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 30, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I give in to the luxury of fatigue. After two busy days, I accept that I have little reserves and can visualize a literal lack of oxygen in red blood cells flowing through my body. Rest will replenish. I succumb to it.

I finished a book today. It took a year to read. Last March, I received The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl. There was no card or indication of who had sent it, but, when I opened the box and looked at the cover, I felt the sender knew me. I scanned through the book and thought, “This is the book I’ve wanted to write!” I kissed the cover, holding it close and took in the fragrance of its pages. I later discovered my friend, Keturah, had sent it. She bought a copy for herself, as well. She and I are kindred spirits.

Every Sunday, for 52 weeks, I read a chapter about birds, about the author’s life, about the weather where she lived, about the season, about the flow of nature. I dotted the end of the chapters with my own thoughts, my own observations of my own birds in my own backyard.

I texted Keturah when I’d finished it today. She responded that she had finished the book, as well, and said she might read it again. I had already logged the book into my list of read-titles and placed it on my shelf with other bird books. After her comment, I retrieved the book and placed it back on the porch where I will start reading it again next Sunday morning. I imagine we will learn new things reading it a second time because we are changed from reading it a first time.

I notice the birds are more active and certainly more vocal this morning. The house sparrows are particularly boisterous as they compete for space in my neighbor’s overgrown hedge. The goldfinches are yellowing before my eyes. Gone is the muted tone of winter; enter, the golden glow of spring.

I’ve begun using an app on my phone called “Merlin Bird ID”. My son-in-law told me about it, sharing that it identifies the sounds and songs of particular birds. Now I know who is singing even when I can’t see him. One thing I’ve noticed is the the number of song variations the birds have—particularly the northern cardinal. It chirps, sings, calls. Short, long, longer calls. There have been more flocking birds, as well: brown-headed cowbirds, European starlings, common grackles. I let them have their fun and then leave the feeders empty for a while to allow them to move on, before refilling.

Spring happens quickly. Much changes one day to the next. The view from my desk shows the continuing growth of the red buds to the left and the opening of the purple flowers on the rhododendron to the right. Straight ahead I see my friend’s house through the backyard of another neighbor. I see her red door and the blue car in her driveway. When her door is open, I see the white face of her older golden retriever as he rests there looking out to the street through the storm door. Soon, the trees will fill in and I’ll no longer have that view. I will miss it.

Our dog, Stella, is 11 years old today. We rescued her three years ago. We were told she was five. Our vet aged her up from there. She is the smallest of our three dogs, weighing in at a slight 9.8 pounds to their 65 pounds each.

I love dogs of all ages. I adore puppy breath and the awkward stages of adolescence. Our two labs are five years old and are beginning to settle into themselves. But, I have a special place in my heart for the older dogs. For the ones with the gray muzzles and the opaque eyes. For the ones with the creaky joints and missing teeth. For the ones who have lived and seen and grew to be beloved. My daughter said goodbye to her German Shepherd, Jada, a couple of weeks ago. Jada, who had been with her for 14 years. She welcomed Angela’s husband, their three children, and three other dogs. She had a large pack and she led it well. Nothing makes me smile more than to see their faces, like the wrinkles on an old woman, knowing they have led many. These old girls like Stella and Jada have been matriarchs. Their loss is great.

Spring moves steadily on. Buds emerge, birds build nests, kids crowd baseball and soccer fields while those who love them cheer heartily. All growing, all changing, as we join them at our own pace.

Our New Year’s Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 2, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

When I was growing up, New Year’s Day was not a celebrated holiday in our home. Rather, it signified the end of the fun. My grandmother and Al had left to return to Yonkers, school was getting ready to start, and worst-of-all, my mother swept through the house like a tornado taking down the tree and any remnants that existed of Christmas—tinsel and all.

I’m still not a huge fan of the day. I don’t like resolutions, and looking back at the past year makes me sentimental. One thing I’ve adapted over the years is getting into the woods on New Year’s Day. Many parks have taken up the act by sponsoring events for families and pets alike.

Yesterday, Joe and I participated in our own special walk along with our nine-year-old grandson, Rockland, and our unknown-of-age dog, Stella. Rockwood Park is near our home and often a go-to for walks. We started with a book walk of Tree Hugs (Abrazados), through which Rockland ran at a rapid pace. We continued through the gardens surrounding the museum which we entered so he could get a hot cider and a protein bar.

Since he was little, he’s been climbing the Weeping Elm that is tucked away in a far part of the gardens. Yesterday was no exception. What was different this time was that he lost his footing, slid along the gnarled trunk and landed on all fours like a cat. It was quite impressive.

We continued into the wooded area—my favorite. He can identify a beech tree by the smooth trunk that looks like sand, and sadly, by the initials carved into its smooth surface. The Sycamore is one of my favorites with its peeling, camouflaged bark, and spiky seed balls hanging from its branches. I notice that there are few birds to be seen and no woods animals in sight.

After our time among the trees, we made our way back to the museum where visitors had written in chalk along the road—Happy New Year—and other such greetings. It felt good to be with others, but also to be our own little group. Stella garners a lot of attention because of her diminutive size and graying muzzle. Joe is only happy to speak to anyone who wants to know more about her.

Rockland and I wander, and notice. He finds the sleigh where we take photos. I think about the treasure of being with him. I consider the first bird I saw this year—the wren; and his—the house sparrow. I like marking these moments and wonder about what lies ahead.

My energy wanes as I suggest we head back to the car. Rockland runs ahead at high speed leaning into the curved walkway that proceeds down a steep path from the park to the lot. Stella tries hard to catch up with him. I marvel at how fast he is. I am thankful I can walk and feel the winter sun on my skin. I wonder if I will ever be able to run like that again.

We arrive home where we are greeted by the two labs who stayed behind. The lights on our Christmas tree remain lit. I enjoy the sparkle and the extra light they emit. My decorations will come down soon, but not today. Today, I will embrace both the gift of 2024 and the gift of 2025. I will put my feet up and live in the moment I’ve been given, enjoying each and every breath.

Return to the Cancer Center

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 7, 2024 category Furry Friends

Last week, Ivy and I had a special visit. All of our visits are special, of course, but this one had special significance. We participated in Resource Day at The Helen Graham Cancer Center—the same center where I meet with my hematologist/oncologist, where I received chemotherapy, where I continue to have labs drawn. My home-away-from-home for the past 17 months.

When the opportunity became available to provide pet therapy for the event, I knew I had to do it, and I knew which dog I would bring. Ivy is a jet-black English lab who can be kind and gentle one moment and as strong as a bull the next. She enjoys people and plays hard with other dogs. But she is alert and attentive and rises to the occasion when it comes to therapy. I was just beginning to walk more and with less pain. I was still tired, and hoped my energy would hold up, but this event was too important not to attend. I hoped Ivy could help me through the 9:00am to 11:00am shift.

The event was held in a large room near the east entrance to the building. I usually enter at the west, so I didn’t see any familiar faces. I kept my diagnosis to myself. We sat near the Nurse Navigators display by a bank of windows overlooking a courtyard and a pond with a fountain. Among the other participants in the room, were nutritionists, nurses, and doctors. The goal was to present the patients and caregivers with available support from various departments as they walked through the cancer experience.

During our shift, most of our interactions were with staff—they needed the comfort as much as the patients and caregivers. As we were approaching the end of our time there, a woman, and a man I assumed to be her husband, entered the double room. Ivy and I were seated on the farthest side away from them, and yet Ivy immediately came to attention. She stood up, alert, staring at the couple. She did not take her eyes off them. I wondered why she was so attentive. We did not know the couple, yet she had a connection with them that was undeniable. They walked slowly, cautiously, looking at some of the displays. The man pushed a walker and the wife said, “This way, Lee,” in an effort to guide him to other tables. As they came closer, Ivy pulled me toward them.

I made eye contact with the woman who had been looking at Ivy. “She is a beautiful dog.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “Her name is Ivy. Would you like to say hello?”

The woman slowly reached out her hand as Ivy sniffed it first, then licked it. We chatted a bit before the husband looked at us. Ivy pulled me right toward him, as though she couldn’t reach him soon enough. Her whole body shook with excitement as her back legs came off the ground. She essentially danced toward him like a bear cub. The man reached over the front of his walker to pet Ivy’s head playfully and strongly. It was as though the man had been energized by the moment. He spoke to Ivy while I looked back at the woman. She had tears in her eyes.

“She is very excited to be with you both,” I said.

“You mean she doesn’t do this with everyone?” she asked.

“No, she doesn’t,” I replied.

Something happened during that encounter. I don’t know who needed the comfort more—the husband or the wife. But, Ivy knew she was needed. She knew she had love to give and that her love was needed in return. She was not slow in her approach. She was excited, joyful, and direct. In return, they received her in a way that communicated their need.

As the couple left us to continue their walk around the room, I put my hand on Ivy and told her what a good job she had done. She allowed me to leave my hand on her for a while. Perhaps she knew that I needed her, too.

Nuggets of the past year

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 23, 2024 category Furry Friends, Stories

A Northern Flicker came through the yard today. I was on the porch and saw a bird sweep by from my left to my right, landing on my neighbor’s fence. Shortly after, a Mourning Dove landed to the left of the Flicker. At the time, I didn’t know it was a Flicker. I thought it was a Dove, but its manner of flying made me question that assumption. So I looked closer and saw red on the nape of its neck. He flew to the back drive, alone, where it began to pick at food from the ground. It went under another neighbor’s fence, but quickly returned to the drive. I grabbed binoculars to be sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Yes. The longer beak. The spotted feathers. The red nape. The size of a dove. The large black spot on the chest. It was him. Confirmed. And, then he was gone.

Today is the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. The day the doctor said the results were not what we had hoped for. Then words like blasts and cancer of the blood—”which is what you have”—and AML, and his tiny writing as he wrote Acute Myeloid Leukemia with preceding MDS on a piece of paper. I expected it based on some of the results I had seen on the patient portal, but hearing the words made things so final. Joe was with me and seemed more shaken than I was at the time. I asked if I could expect to feel better at some time and the doctor was so positive and said, yes, and then said more words that included a new chemotherapy protocol with fewer side effects and a shorter treatment time and later on, a stem cell transplant and then things began to swirl. I had a list of things I needed to do prior to treatment: more visits, more labs, CT of heart, PICC line placement, cancellation of vacation at the shore, the telling me that my neutrophils were so low, that if I were to get sick right now, he would hospitalize me.

I remember tutoring a student online that afternoon, and meeting Joey at St. Patrick’s in the city for 5:30 mass. Some time that week, I went to my grandson’s baseball game and before leaving the car a woman from the insurance company called to say how much of the stem cell transplant they would cover and I felt overwhelmed. It may have been the day before that I found out, or maybe the same day, time got very mixed up for me, and I was trying to absorb it all slowly. Anxiety had already taken me. I remember saying to Joe, “I feel like I’m drowning.”

One of the hardest parts initially was telling my family that I had leukemia. Joe knew. I told my son at Mass. I told my daughter. And then I told my brothers and sister. I felt afraid, vulnerable. We had just lost our mother in January and now I had cancer. I assured them of all the things the doctor told me. All the positive things. That the treatments are so good now and that I was expected to be cured. And, I was exhausted. I told close friends, but I didn’t tell everyone because I didn’t have the energy to answer questions or to carry any heaviness when it was enough to just breathe and not get washed away in anxiety and depression.

A year ago today. The day I saw a Northern Flicker in my yard. The day that I am in full remission. The day that I am still recovering and dealing with GVHD. The day that I went with Joe, and our dogs, Ivy, Franklin, and Stella to Sleeping Bird Coffee. The day that I went in with my mask on and ordered my own food. The day I drank a cappuccino and ate a bacon, egg, and cheese on sour dough bread with fig jam. The day I came home and am sitting up in bed with Stella at my side, writing these words and watching the stream of the remaining eaglet at the Duke Farms Eagle Nest get ready to fledge. The other left yesterday.

I feel a bit like this eaglet. Not quite ready to fly, but positioned to do so. Resting. Waiting for the conditions to be right. A fish in the nest in the event of hunger. The eaglet on the branch. Between here and there.

Symphony of Spring

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2022 category Furry Friends

All things have a place on spring’s stage. While one takes its bow, another enters— exemplary of a layered garden.

Recently, my one-hundred-two-year-old neighbor died. My six-year-old grandson and I were remembering her and he spoke to me of the circle of life. Of how something dies and another thing takes its place. “Maybe when my baby sister is born, she will be Miss Rose.”

In nature, young and old coexist. One has the spotlight while another plays a supporting role. And, then it changes. Where I live in Delaware, the redbud and cherry blossoms have withdrawn, while primrose and iris shine. The light green leaves of spring provide a backdrop for the magnificent peony. I check daily for the short-lived season of the lilac and savor its fragrance while it remains.

Three years ago today, we said goodbye to our beloved Golden Retriever, Roger. We spread his ashes in some of his favorite places, and at the base of a rose bush we planted in his honor.

Today, one of its branches reaches to the sky, reminding me it’s possible that death mingles with life, and brokenness with beauty.

Stella!

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 31, 2022 category Furry Friends

Stella joined the pack yesterday. She is a six-or-seven year old Dachshund who was brought to Delaware in a van from Alabama along with her three ready-to-be-adopted puppies. She is chocolate brown—though she may be black—with sprinkles of white around her muzzle and face. Her ears flap likes the wings of a bird when the wind blows, yet she stands her ground. She is alert, curious, and prefers the warmth of a human to that of a much-larger two-year-old English Lab. She is missing two teeth and finds it easier to eat jerky treats than even the tiniest of Milk Bones.

I pictured her as more feeble until I spent a day with her. She is strong and walks fast. We made it to the top of Rodman Road today—up hill all the way. I ask her to walk on my left and she obliges. She is potty-trained and that is a relief. Her poops are bigger than I expected from such a small dog. (Is that too much information?)

She’s only barked once since she got here and that was when she met Ivy. I believe it was a, “Hi, my name is Stella. I’m your new sister. Want to be friends?” greeting. Ivy was all-fours-off-the-ground in response.

I can’t help but wonder where she came from and who her people were. She had to be well-loved. She is kind and mannerly. Was she a surrender? She and the three puppies? Could the owner not afford to care for them? Why hadn’t she been spayed at an earlier age? Did the owner die? I wonder.

Stella is a welcome addition. I try not to call her a puppy or a baby. She’s not. She’s a strong, capable, full-grown dog. All 11.1 pounds of her. She’s been through stuff, even if I don’t know what that was. But, she’s here now, and I am glad of it.

Puppy Play Date

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 20, 2022 category Furry Friends

I can see it in her eyes. It’s not sadness exactly, but rather a lethargic expression. She looks at me without lifting her head, as though she’s afraid to ask for fear of being denied. I recognize the meaning of that look because I’ve felt it myself. One might call it boredom, another, a lack of enthusiasm. Perhaps momentum has been broken and langour has taken its place. It’s time for a play date.

Ivy is a two-year-old English lab. Her best friend, Cooper, lives down the street—a mere eight-minute walk from our kitchen door to his fenced backyard. I text my friend and ask if we can come. Ivy knows we are going by which door we exit. It takes a lot to keep her attention. I wonder that she doesn’t wear herself out by the mere exhausting pace of our walk.

When we turn the last corner, we hear Cooper’s bark. He is waiting in the yard for his friend. Ivy’s tail is high, her ears perked, her body in a state of high alert. It is all I can do to keep her from dragging me up the driveway. I unleash her and she powers her way into the yard. There is something primal about dogs running side by side, free from restraints, muscles triggering. While independent beings, they adapt their rhythm to the flow of the other.

There is a cadence to their play: run, jump, tumble, separate, bark, invite, run, jump, tumble, separate, dig, bounce, sit, observe, bark, sniff, wander, run, jump, tumble, separate, pant, stand. I spend the hour watching, reading, smiling, observing. I compare their friendship to human companionship. I notice the flow, the tempo, the filling that comes from being in the company of one who understands, who sees, who cares.

We say goodbye, satisfied for now; the pace slower on the return trip home.