Furry Friends

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.

A Winter’s Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Dec 23, 2021 category Furry Friends

I wrote this entire essay in my mind this morning, December 23. I am moved by this date. I like the numbers and the way they play off of one another. Numbers create in me feelings, and this one is joy.

It is dark when Ivy and I set out just past 6:30 am. I wear a knit headband and scarf; a vest and jacket; and ski gloves. She wears her pink and gray harness and “flower power” leash. She stops on the stoop outside the front door and looks around. A neighbor down the street is arriving home after his night shift.

We descend the three steps to the sidewalk, the slate, and the street. There is little on our walk that is smooth—an homage to the age of the town and the many cars that travel down our road from Brandywine Boulevard to the nearby entrance of I-495. Only one car passes us today, and I wave a hello both to be friendly and to be sure the driver sees us, despite the reflector lights prominently displayed on my arm and Ivy’s harness.

Ivy lunges at a crab apple, while I divert her to the middle of the road. It’s not an avoidance tactic that often works. I let her stop and sniff at the top of the hill where we make a left from our street onto the Boulevard. On this larger, more travelled road, I notice Christmas lights—some which have been up since the day after Thanksgiving, and others that were put up last night. One home continues to add to its display so that each morning it is a gift I discover.

I stop at each intersection to notice the reddening sky to the east; the skeleton of trees enhances the drama. The moon is a few days past full, and in the western sky, greets the approaching sun. I marvel at the intensity of what is able to be seen in the dark, and that which loses its flavor in the light.

At the corner of Lore Avenue sets my favorite home in the neighborhood. It is a majestic, stone home with a fire pit and sitting area around back. It is surrounded by large fir trees and a small evergreen which grows near the sidewalk. Last year the owners had placed a red Christmas ornament on it, reminding me of the one on Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. The tree is larger this year, and that same ornament looks significantly smaller.

The sanitation workers are out today and we greet each other with a wave. Sometimes the bus drivers will honk their horns if they see me. I haven’t seen Deb much since her daughter moved out and took the dog with her; the man with the knee brace who walked every morning has not been around for months and I worry that maybe he is sick or injured. The man with the roses got a new Jeep, and the family with the Labradoodle struggles to manage the big, fluffy puppy.

I am able to see more of the river since the trees dropped their leaves. The Delaware Memorial Bridge is in plain sight despite the smoke stacks spewing white fog into the cold morning air. Its blinking lights alert ships beneath and planes above. On the rivers banks I can see New Jersey.

Ivy stops to sniff and I get ready with my green bag. We pass Tom’s house—the one with the fig trees. I notice newspapers thrown on the sidewalk, far short of the front doors. Some mornings I carry them the rest of the way to the stoops.

When I see something notable, I stop and share the moment with Ivy. She knows now that I will not pass the rose bush without smelling the roses, and sometimes even kissing them. When I do, I think of the fictional character, Lucy Barton, who was chided by her husband when he caught her kissing flowers in a vase on their kitchen table. Like Lucy Barton, I am not ashamed.

As we head toward home, the Christmas lights dim, the traffic increases, and the sun rises above the tree line. I begin to think of what lies ahead on this day, those things I wish to accomplish. But before that, I look with gratitude at the height of the trees, the call of the hawk, and even the bite of the wind against my cheeks. I am reminded of the opportunity I have to walk freely, to witness boldly, and to join communally with those around me. I am grateful to know I am not alone.

Author’s Note: I originally wrote “Haines” instead of “Lore” Avenue. The correction has been made.

The Stories We Tell

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Dec 8, 2021 category Furry Friends

Father George is a storyteller in the truest sense of the word. He bows his head, organizing the words before he speaks. He tells me that he shares stories during his homilies and I ask if the men enjoy them. He tells me that two of them do.

I’ve been visiting with this priest for nearly eight years, first with my Golden Retriever, Roger, and now with my English Lab, Ivy. I would find him in the activities room of the retirement home where he would be organizing crafts. He and two other men would invite me to join them for coffee and conversation. He is the only one left of the three, and so now his stories are just for me.

The retired priest has taken workshops on the art of storytelling and has shared some of his knowledge with me. I know to read a story five times before sharing it. It’s okay to forget parts and make up new ones. When writing a story, it’s helpful to think in terms of threes, and I am reminded that decorating in threes is also appealing.

On my recent visit, George invited some of the other men to join us on the porch—one at a time. Jim prefers that I not call him Father, because he is retired. I asked him what was new in the house and he paused before responding. He said they were back on lock-down and consequently there weren’t as many stories to share of trips and adventures. I asked about his sister and her dogs, which brought to his face a smile as he told about the cat who just couldn’t get along with the dog and about the allergies brought on by her dander.

When we were alone, George told me his story about a king who wanted more to come from the sky than simply rain, snow, and fog. He commanded something different and received thick, sticky goo in return. In order to get rid of it, he had to say he was wrong and that he was sorry. When he did, the goo disappeared and the rain was welcomed.

It was my turn to tell a story about my walks with Ivy—about looking down to keep her from eating crabapples and, as a result, missing the beauty around me. I purposed to look up and began to see new things, which I listed in threes. I had practiced that story every morning on my walks, sometimes concentrating so hard that I forgot all about looking.

Before I left, Father George taught me a card trick. Starting with a deck of cards with all aces on top, I was to separate the deck into four piles. With each of three piles, I counted out three cards and placed them on the bottom of the pile. I then took one card at a time and placed them on top of the remaining piles. I saved the pile with aces for last. By now, there were three other cards on top, so that when I removed them and put them on the bottom of the pile, my four aces remained. I placed one on top of each pile and when I turned over the top cards, aces appeared. Ever the teacher, he demonstrated the trick, explained it, and then had me do it. He sent me home with the deck of cards to continue the trick on others.

Father George is one who looks up. Though his eyesight is failing, he seeks out what is beautiful. He has his faith, his tricks, and his stories. When I prepare to leave, I ask him if there is anything I can bring him from the outside world. He tells me, no, that he has everything he needs. I believe he does.

This is Pet Therapy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 29, 2021 category Furry Friends

It had been a number of years since I’d brought a therapy dog to the campus of a local school. My Golden Retriever, Roger, had died. COVID had erupted. But, on October 13, PAWS for People was welcomed back to campus, and my English Labrador Retriever, Ivy, accompanied me to the DeStress event on The Green.

The students came in groups to pet Ivy. Stressed from mid-terms, they were grateful for the reprieve. When we agreed to come, it was with that sentiment in mind. But, it turned out to be for another reason that we were needed.

A violent act against a female student had been reported and the arrest of another student had been performed. Students had gathered the night before to protest and were planning another peaceful walk on the night we were there.

I began to see them walking through The Green with handmade signs and talking to one another about where to meet the others. They stopped to say hello to Ivy and in the process, speak with me. I wished them well and they continued to another part of town to march.

Later on, I saw some of the students returning. They walked slowly, signs held down at their sides. They were quiet when they stopped near Ivy. I asked them how it went. They responded that it was hard. One girl cried, another put her arm around her. A man kneeled among his friends. Ivy was at the center of the gathering. I looked at her, at her sturdy body accepting the touches of strangers, of the comfort it brought by her mere presence. And, I thought, This is pet therapy.