Furry Friends

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.

Looking Up

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 1, 2021 category Furry Friends

Walking had been my peace and my prayer. It had been my time of contemplation and consideration. That is, until I began walking with my Labrador Retriever, Ivy. Though nearly two years old, Ivy still engages every sight, sound, and opportunity that comes her way. Whether sticks and stones or branches and berries, nothing is off limits to Ivy.

As a result, I began looking down to see what she was doing in an attempt to keep her from eating something dangerous. I watched for people, pets, and squirrels, in order to keep her from jumping, barking, and chasing.

I shared this with my friend, Father George, telling him that by looking down, I was missing all the beauty around me. I decided that on future walks with Ivy, I would purpose to look up. As a result, on our early morning walks I began to see many things.

a bird on top of the tallest tree; the “Twin Towers” of pine trees
pine cones in various stages of growth (from green to brown)
sun visible in the tree tops; a view of the river and the Delaware Memorial Bridge between certain houses
birds flying from tree top to tree top across the road.

Each day I saw the leaves changing color as they released their hold on summer green and returned to brown, yellow, orange, and red. Each day a bit more, starting with a few leaves first, and then moving to a patch.

By not looking at Ivy, I realized I was using my other senses

I heard the jingle of her tags
I felt the pull as she lunged to eat something from the ground
I sensed her looking at me when she needed to stop and sniff

The use of my senses was not limited to Ivy.

Instead of looking at roses, I would stop and smell them, touch them, even kiss them
I noticed that the scent is stronger in the older, weathered petals
I rubbed the petals in order to release their scent—as I do with lavender

By not looking at Ivy, I began to trust her more, and she trusted me.

I began to wonder what I might experience as I started walking—how many birds would be resting on the leaf-less branches at the tops of tall trees?

I noticed turkey vultures on high tension wires, one sun-soaking its expansive wings
I watched clouds blowing east to west ahead of a storm; leaves turning over, falling to the ground; branches moving to show the white trunk of a sycamore that had lost its bark
At hints of rain everything moves more quickly—people, dogs, squirrels, and cars.

One of the greatest values of looking up was meeting other people.

I saw the man whose rose bush I admired. I told him how beautiful it was and how happy it made me; he cut me a bouquet and left it under the bush which I gathered on my way back up the hill
I met a man named Tom who grew trees around his property: figs, apricots, apple, and olive; he showed me his garden and told me that grass was nice, but he preferred to have the land work for him; he sent me home with a bouquet of aging basil
I saw the man with the roses again; autumn had begun and the blooms were near the end of their season; he cut four stunning roses which I proudly and gratefully carried home

Walking has returned to me, my peace. Walking with Ivy has returned to me, my prayer.

At a Distance—Bringing up Puppy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 3, 2021 category Furry Friends

Raising a puppy is not for the faint of heart. Raising one during a pandemic is even more daunting.

Ivy is a velvety black English Labrador Retriever. She is stocky in build, strong-willed in personality, and loving in manner. She bounded into our lives in early February, 2020. We were told to limit her interaction with other people, places, and pets until she had been fully vaccinated. We did that in full anticipation of the day when we could regularly walk her in parks and introduce her to humans and their dogs. That day did not arrive as quickly as we thought.

What came instead was full lockdown with three adults working, teaching, and schooling from the confines of a very small home. Along with Ivy, and our seven-year-old cat, we became an isolated pack. When awake, Ivy had one speed: fast. Her energy was boundless. Coming on the heels of our 13-year-old Golden Retriever, Roger, who died nine months earlier, Ivy was another breed of animal. She seemed to have no down-shift—until she slept. I lived for those moments in the early months, when for a brief time, motion stopped and the deep sound of her breathing was pure music to my ears.

When Roger died, I lost a dear friend. Not only was he my beloved pet, but he was also my teammate in pet therapy. I lost my connection to both the group, and to those we had visited. I found it hard to take a walk in the neighborhood without my faithful friend. Nine months after his passing, Ivy became our family pet, but, I still didn’t connect with her as a friend. I began to seriously doubt whether she and I would be able to visit as a pet therapy team the way Roger and I had. A therapy dog brings connection, love, peace, and physical touch. All the things required were now things to be avoided. I was raising a dog at a distance. The therapy group was on hiatus, the visiting sites shut down to us. Masks began to be commonplace. The invisible barrier that kept us 50 inches from other humans, was beginning to take its toll. The time when I should have been introducing Ivy to situations, sounds, and caresses was delayed.

Vet visits were challenging as I was required to remain in my car while a tech brought Ivy to see the doctor. But, she was brave and finally vaccinated to the point where she was able to venture away from the house. I began taking Ivy to a local park to help her get accustomed to new places, sights, smells. Walking for her was difficult. She preferred the hard pull; the darting from side to side (more than once taking me off my feet); the barking at other dogs and their owners as they passed us on the trails. She had a six-foot leash which marked the distance between us and other people. It was the distance which we’d been told would keep us safe. But distance is not what either of us wanted.

I was thankful to live in a neighborhood where she could hear the voices of other people. The fence between our house and the neighbor’s was a source of connection, as well as protection. I found as many ways as possible to socialize Ivy in the current environment: car rides, walks up and down our shared driveway, visits to more state parks. She continued to be full of an endless supply of energy. Solid in stature and strong as a bull, she greeted people with a bark that often had me explaining that she was just a puppy saying hello. Dog owners understood; others looked at us as ones to avoid.

When Ivy turned nine months old, I noticed a change. She was calmer. She slept more. I wondered if we had turned a corner. However, her calm demeanor came with a noticeable cough. I wondered at first whether it was a result of her pulling on the leash. I used a harness to take the pressure off of her neck, but the coughing continued. The vet’s initial diagnosis was kennel cough, but, after a round of antibiotics, the coughing continued. Vet visits became routine as she had blood drawn and numerous x-rays performed. She endured these events alone, having to be sedated as I remained banished to the car and unable to calm her. Her lungs were like those of a much older, sicker dog. With continued follow-up and medications, diagnostics and consultations, it was determined that she was probably suffering from lungworm. It is likely that she ate a slug, or licked its trail, which carried the worms that then found their way into her lungs and blood vessels. She was a very sick dog. After months of further isolation, treatment, and distance, she was finally released, but not without some residual lung damage. When she was healthy enough, we had her spayed. She couldn’t take long walks until her abdominal incision was completely healed and, once again, we found ourselves at home.

At the time of this writing, the little girl is 16 months old. She is strong and healthy; she is gentle and loving. Ivy and I have passed our Advanced Standard of Excellence for pet therapy and with more locations opening their doors, we’ve begun to visit at a retirement home and elementary school. She looks to me as her friend, and the feeling is mutual. While distanced from others, she and I drew close. While socially-distanced puppy-raising was not what I signed up for, Ivy and I made it through, day-by-day, and step-by-step.

First Fruits

by Denise Marotta Lopes on May 10, 2021 category Furry Friends, Uncategorized

It’s become tradition to hang the hummingbird feeder on my son’s birthday at the beginning of May, and then wait. It’s a labor of love, as there is often a delay between the preparation and the sighting. I clean the feeder with soap and water; then sanitize in a mixture of water and bleach. I prepare the nectar—4 parts water to 1 part sugar—dissolve and cool. I pour the nectar into the feeder, attach the top, hang it on a shepherd’s hook in an area I can see from my porch, and wait.

This time it took six days, but this morning I saw it. Stealth in nature, it appears, it hovers, wings flapping to the point of disappearance. It dips, it hovers, it lands, it drinks. It hovers, it zips away.

I find myself smiling, holding my breath, as I witness another first. This hummer is likely passing through as it migrates to its summer home. He is merely a migrator—resting, refreshing, reinvigorating. A welcome visitor.

There’s something about the first. There is a wonder in what has not been seen before. It sets the stage for what’s to come. It provides hope in the next thing.

Our beloved dog, Roger, died two years ago today. Last summer we planted a climbing rose bush in our front yard in his honor. This weekend, the first rose, red like wine, emerged, tall and straight, and with it, a reminder of hope and love that never dies.

A Golden and a Priest

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

One from the archives (2015)—missing both my Roger and this beautiful priest.

Father Michael Szupper’s room is second on the left, in a quiet wing of the Oblates of St. Frances de Sales’ Annecy Hall. I gently knock on his door, which is slightly ajar, and say, “Good morning, Father Szupper, it’s Denise and Roger. Would you like a visit?”

I wait for the sound of his voice, which is often too faint to discern. Roger, my ten-year-old Golden Retriever knows the custom, and at my request, sits and waits along with me. Sometimes, through the crack in the door, I see the back of the priest’s motorized recliner move as he positions himself to welcome us. After a time, I hear him indicate he’s ready.

Leaving the dark hall, we enter the room. Roger instinctively knows to be calm here. I whisper, “Gently,” but he already knows. Maneuvering around the black wheelchair, Roger approaches Father from the front, putting his head right near the man’s hand.

“Roger Dodger! Hey, buddy. Working hard?” he asks.

Though movement is difficult for Father Szupper, he places his fingers on Roger’s forehead moving them back and forth in a gentle massaging motion, and uses words I don’t understand. They seem to speak the same language.

I enjoy my visits with this kind man. There is a quiet strength about him that needs no words to convey. There is a television in his room, but I’ve never seen it on. On both sides of his chair are tables piled with books; often he sets down the German Bible he’s been reading when we arrive. A Charlie Brown Christmas tree with one red ornament sets on a TV tray against the wall. Next to it is an empty bird cage.

Our conversations are about the weather, his love for football, and his past experience as Chaplain at the University of Delaware. He tells me about his sheepdog—Tiel von Eulenspiegel—whom he would set free among the college students during study time and announce, “Okay, study break!”

He shifts slowly, but with purpose. Each movement is measured. When I ask how he’s feeling, he minimizes the obvious pain in his arm by saying, “It hurts, but no one is going to take away my food.”

Inevitably the conversation reverts to Roger. He gets quiet as he watches me interact with my dog. In his peaceful room, I sense contentment, and an equal amount of longing. He stares out the window and speaks of the birds that he views from his chair.

“They’re very large black birds with big wing spans,” he says. “They fly above the tree line out there, and they just soar.”

“Turkey vultures,” I suggest.

I wonder if he considers their freedom. I look at the newly-hung feeder in the tree just outside his window, and notice the way in which his eyebrows raise, and his eyes widen when a Dark-eyed Junco lands for a meal.

On this day, I ask him something I’ve never broached before: what do our visits mean to you? He takes a moment to consider his response, and says, “It reconnects me with the real world.”

I was quiet, meditating on the significance of his words. Before that time, I hadn’t considered that his only experience of the outside world was through the windows in his room—and by our weekly, Tuesday visits. When Roger enters his room, a change occurs. Father shares about their unique way of communicating.

‘It’s like an friend who says, ‘How are you doing, Buddy?’” he explains. “I don’t have to answer correctly with words. Words clog everything up.”

He continues, “Here, there are questions, ‘Did you eat your breakfast?’ Here, we are well-organized and on time. But when he comes in, who cares about hair or dirt? Snow or ice?”

When Roger and I visit we bring the outdoors in. By feeling Roger’s fur, Father Szupper knows if it’s rained. He knows the temperature because we bring it with us. The routine stops when we arrive.

I was moved by the way the priest spoke of my dog as a companion.

“The bonds of friendship are stronger than the barriers of society,” he says. “With friends, the fences come down, and you come as you are.”

As we rise to leave, Roger backs himself away from Father’s recliner, much as a tractor trailer
removes itself from a tight spot, and he navigates around the wheelchair. We make our way toward the door and I say, “It was good to see you,” to which he responds, “It is good to be seen.”

Our Morning Walk

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 5, 2021 category Furry Friends

Walking in the early morning hours is an activity I treasure. Before the town is fully awake, when it’s just me and Ivy, the newspaper delivery person zipping along in her white sedan, and the bus driver making near-impossible turns, I own this day. Along with them, I feel like one of the privileged few.

On especially chilly mornings, I layer in leggings and jeans; vest and coat; scarf, gloves, and head band. Ivy and I leave the warmth of the house for the welcoming air of the streets. With Ivy on my left, we start up the long steady rise to the knap that meets the boulevard. We stop in order for her to sniff, and for whatever naturally follows.

In my right coat pocket is a tissue and a green eco-friendly doggy bag; the left pocket is for treats, which come in handy when I need her to look at me instead of at the squirrels chasing each other up the telephone pole or at the barking dog behind the fence across the street.

We continue past old stone houses, and smaller bungalows. Two enormous sycamore trees grace the property of a home in mild disrepair. Though it is February, some homes still have their holiday lights on. I enjoy the calm that it brings.

At openings between the houses or at one of the five intersections we cross, we can see the river and the sun that is beginning to color the sky. Sometimes Ivy will stop right there and wait—cars be damned. This past week, the full moon still shone to the west while the sun in its rising attempted to blot it from the sky.

I remind Ivy not to cross in front of my feet to lunge at a fallen stick; there are plenty on her own side. She chooses the largest of the options, often whacking me across the shins with it as we go. She bites it hard, which causes it to break and fall to the ground. Sometimes she’ll pick up the discarded piece on the way back.

Aside from the occasional walker, the sidewalks are generally free of people. Sometimes we see another dog with her person. Other times we pass a solitary man who walks purposefully with head down and no words to share. We observe newspapers thrown short of front porches. I read the headlines as I step around one: President Biden received his COVID vaccination.

When we reach the house with the thick, expansive lawn, I remember to look up. It is from here that the bridge connecting Delaware to New Jersey can be seen. I am seldom unimpressed with its grandeur. The boulevard continues a downward trek to a road with fast-moving vehicles headed to the interstate. It is at that intersection that we turn around to return home, but not before Ivy stops, taking in the change of direction. I move my hand in a gesture of invitation. She considers and eventually follows along.

This walk is our dance. When in sync, our steps form a rhythm. If one of us forgets about the other, it’s like hitting a bad note. Most times it’s Ivy whose mind wanders and I become just something she drags around at the end of her leash. At other times it’s me who falls into a “where’s-the-fire” pace, long legs marching forward forgetting the dog who needs to sniff and sniff some more. We remind each other to pause and look at the mockingbird high in a tree, cawing like a blue jay. We slow as we hear the 4 bus approaching. I stop and wave.

We continue on, uphill this time, past the house with the big lawn, past the same newspaper, past the magnificent sycamores. Ivy finds the earlier-discarded stick. I loosen my scarf and unzip my jacket a bit. We make it back to our street, turn right and head downhill toward home.

Return Visit

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

In December, 2013, Roger, my golden retriever, and I embarked on the world of pet therapy with a visit to the priests and brothers at the Oblates of St. Frances de Sales in Childs, Maryland. For several years, we met at 10:00 on Tuesday mornings for coffee and extended visits. We fell into a comfortable rhythm with three men in particular: Father Sarro, Brother John, and Father George.

But, as often happens, those we love leave, and we are left with both the joy of remembrance and the sorrow of loss.

In November, 2020, Ivy, my English Labrador Retriever puppy, and I made a return visit to the Oblates, where I introduced her to Father George. This time, he and I sat six feet apart wearing protective masks. He had prepared a cup of coffee for me, and set out water in a large cookie tin for Ivy. We caught up; he told stories. We laughed; we sat in silence.

At my last visit, Roger wore a support-harness; at this visit, Father George used a walker. As is his custom, Father George walked us back to our car. Along the way we stopped in the small cemetery where Brother John is buried.

Life changes, but some things remain: friendship, connection, and the healing power of a puppy.

Adapted from an article originally published in the PAWS for People Community Newsletter: Late November, 2020

Ivy (10 months)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 3, 2020 category Furry Friends

she snuffles, she bumbles,
she coughs, and
she fumbles

through woods, and tall grass,
over roots, mud, and
trash

she wags, and she wanders,
she stops, and
she ponders

chews sticks in the street
she sits down
with her treat

cars slow to observe
drivers smile
and swerve

puppy life in the city
‘burbs, woods,
is all pretty

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