Furry Friends

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

Moments Unexpected

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 1, 2020 category Furry Friends

I had just settled into my favorite chair on the screened porch, Ivy sniffing at the floor. I looked out onto my rear-facing driveway and the access road beyond it. The morning was quiet aside from the early-rising birds. It was then that I saw a fox walk down the drive from the road, and continue past our driveway. It was hidden behind our neighbor’s hedge when Ivy suddenly stopped, no doubt catching the fox’s scent. I stood and approached the screen—Ivy at my side. We focused our attention hoping for a closer look at the fox, when it retreated from the hedge and entered our drive. It looked about, nose-to-the-ground near the sage, clematis, hosta, and bird bath.

It glanced up and caught us staring. It looked disheveled, its white and reddish coat in need of a brush. The face, long and narrow; the prominent tail, orange and fluffy. After several moments, it turned in the direction of the road. It appeared to be heading toward a neighbor’s home—the one with the five cats that freely roam the neighborhood snatching birds from friendly feeders. Instead, it turned and suddenly, from behind it, an orange animal, low to the ground, scurried in pursuit. I wondered why a cat would be following a fox. It wasn’t until they were both out of sight that I realized the orange fluff was a kit. And, that momma, undoubtedly, had been searching for it.

Raising Ivy (4 months)

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 17, 2020 category Furry Friends

Someone is growing up. She sleeps until almost 5:00 a.m. now, goes out, eats breakfast, and sleeps on my feet while I have my morning coffee. She loves her people, often getting excited when we enter a room, even if we’ve only been gone a few minutes. She sits in our yard facing the neighbor’s house waiting for her people who live on the other side of the fence to come out.

Ivy thinks our cat is a dog. The cat is not amused.

She comes running when she hears the sound of the kitchen drawer opening—the one that holds the box of treats. I’ve discovered that she walks better on a leash if she is carrying a stick in her mouth.

The little girl retrieves with expertise. She is fast, and has a preference for sprints over marathons. She’s been practicing her skill at collecting more than one thing in her mouth at a time. (This skill is still being perfected.)

She drinks a lot of water at one time. She is not a sipper or a grazer. It’s all or nothing for this girl. There’s nothing gradual about her. She runs hard—lets out a bark of relinquishment—and collapses into sleep. Deep sleep. Snoring sleep.

Ivy responds to directions. She’s really good at sit and wait. Down is a work-in-progress. Come is hilarious. I use a hand motion with the word. She sits. She looks at my hand. Then at my face. Then at my hand. And, then she comes. Sometimes.

She makes us smile. For that we are grateful. She loves us, and we love her in return.

She’s growing up alright.

Raising Ivy…the saga continues

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 4, 2020 category Furry Friends

Ivy’s discovered a parallel universe. Her world has now moved beyond what is on the floor, to what is three feet above her head: bright blue S’well bottles; creaky, shiny doorknobs; luscious Granny Smith apples; herb-rubbed top round roasts; unsuspecting cats on the radiator cover.

She sees.

She stops.

She barks.

I’ve discovered some things, as well.

Rain beads on her back like bulging drops on a windshield.

She doesn’t need to go out as often—yet, I don’t rest on that knowledge.

She likes to bark and it sounds like yelling to me. I remember that she is a puppy, and likely trying to communicate something to me. (Couldn’t she just whisper?)

She enjoys the bathtub.

She makes me laugh out loud.

I’m told by her breeder, Beth, that Ivy is bored. I am not another puppy. She can’t lay on the ground and bite my ears and wrestle. No matter how many times I throw the ball across the dining room floor, I am still not her pack member in the way she needs. I’m told two are easier than one.

I simply can’t imagine it.

Thursday, February 27, 2020
11 weeks, 6 days

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