Denise Marotta Lopes

Set Your Gaze

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 24, 2022 category Uncategorized

You are what you gaze upon.

Where is my gaze focused today?

It is on my neighbor’s fence, watching the hedge grow over and through onto. My thoughts grow as I consider space, and boundaries, and when will those trees grow in?

What am I looking at?

Drishti is a word used in yoga—a point of focus during a particular move. How can staring at a point on the wall help me to hold a pose? I don’t know, but it does. Perhaps I stop thinking about falling because my mind is focused on that little point on the wall.

Where do my eyes go?

Looking at items up close causes eye fatigue, so I go outside and find a point far away that allows my eyes to focus on a distant object.

The tops of trees.
The flight patterns of birds.
Is that a “V”? A turkey vulture.
Is that a flat wing? An eagle or a hawk.

Where do I focus when sadness strikes?

Is it down and inward?
Is this where I look for my answers?

When a doctor’s test reveals the possibility of concern, or the news reports onset of unrest, do I go down the rabbit trail of the worst possible outcomes?

In The Monastic Heart by Joan Chittister, she shares a story about a man who has lost his treasure. On hands and knees he searches through the dust and dirt trying to find it. Others stopped to help him, but to no avail.

Frustrated, one of them asks, “Sir, are you sure you lost it here?”

He responds, “No, it was not here.”

“Then why are we looking for it in this location?”

He says, “Because this is where the light is.”

What am I gazing upon?

Will I lean on the goodness of God knowing I will have the grace to deal with each thing as I need it?

Will I continue to live my life, loving my neighbor, remaining in the light? Will I focus on that point on the wall?

I am what I gaze upon.

Snowy Beach

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 28, 2022 category Uncategorized

Sometimes, I’ve just got to get away. So, I suggested a two hour drive to a Delaware beach—in winter.

It might seem an apathetic endeavor to travel to the ocean and not enjoy the luxury of warm sunshine and a swim in the Atlantic, but just the opposite was true. I found the dichotomy of a day at the beach to be both refreshing and invigorating.

An early-riser, I walked to the sand before dawn and watched as the earth turned slowly toward the sun. The seagulls seemed unfazed by the freezing temperatures; the snowfall from two days earlier still on the boardwalk and parts of the beach.

My favorite time, even at home, is right before dawn. It is the time when preparations are being made, when it’s no longer night, but not quite day. The sky shows signs of what’s to come even before the star of the day shows up. The colors are vivid, striking, with nothing to distract one’s eye from them.

I held my gaze at the spot where I would soon see the sun. It was red, broken by long strands of cloud, causing texture in the landscape. I began to see brightness approaching, but decided to look to the left and was struck by the grandeur of the sky. It is easily missed by those who direct their sights on the luminary of sunrise, and miss the magnificence of the supporting cast.

Later in the day, the beach looked entirely different. A young child moved her feet on the sand, then the snow, then the sand again while her mother photographed her with a cell phone. The grasses were visible, the fence surrounding the protected area in full view. Even the crashing waves shared the spotlight with all there was to see.

The horizon, the depth of distance between this shore and that on the other side of the ocean, made me feel both small and at the same time, significant by the mere presence of my feet firmly planted on the ground.

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.

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.

Birthday Boy

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jul 15, 2021 category Stories

July 14, 2021

Today is Rockland’s last day of being five. He’s announced he does not wish to turn six.

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, because I don’t like the bathrooms in first grade. They’re bigger. And, they’re dirty,” he said.

When he was three, he didn’t want to become four because then he wouldn’t be the same age as Bryce Harper’s number. He’s reconciled that by telling me he still has Bryce’s jersey.

Today we went to the Delaware Art Museum. He insisted he wouldn’t like it and declared it would be boring. We parked the car and he told me he would remember where we parked when we left. We walked along the path of the outdoor sculpture garden on our way to the main entrance. He asked me the names of the sculptures as we passed. Circle of Lines; Three Rectangles Horizontal Jointed Gyratory III; Orifice II.

“What’s that one, Nonna?”

A bronze sculpture sat at the end of the group. I asked Rockland what he thought the name of this one was.

“I don’t know. Maybe Crying Guy?”

The name on the plaque was Crying Giant.

“How did you know that?”

“Well, because sometimes I put my hands on my head like that when I cry.”

We left the late-morning heat for the air-conditioned indoor museum. The woman at the desk greeted us kindly, took my money, and at my request, directed us to some of the highlights to be found in the building. The boy who said he would be bored ran ahead, looking at the paintings.

“Nonna, see that picture of the lady over there? That’s a self-portrait,” he said.

He continued along asking me the names of different pieces of work. He identified the painting of George Washington and a bust of Abraham Lincoln. He was unhappy when I told him we would take the stairs instead of the elevator. He said it wasn’t fair.

Upstairs we saw a life-sized steel horse sculpture named Riot. Within the body of that exhibit were the letters R, I, O, and T, which Rockland discovered before being told not to stand beneath the sculpture by a cranky security person.

I decided that outdoors would be safer, so after a visit to the restroom and another quick look at our favorite paintings, we went back out to the sculpture garden.

“Hey, Nonna, what’s that one over there?”

We walked over to get a closer look, past campers lined up having their snacks, and near a girl who was having hers alone. I made sure to stand near her as I told Rockland that this one was named Monumental Holistic VII.

“Monumental Holistic VII?”

“Yes. That’s quite a name, isn’t it.”

The little girl looked over her shoulder at the 168 x 96 x 108 inch structure in whose shadow she sat. The still-five-year-old moved on to a shady path calling me to follow along. We sat on a bench to rest before following signs to the The Labyrinth. Built on the site of a former reservoir was the biggest labyrinth I’d ever seen. We entered excitedly and a bit too loudly for the contemplative man walking its paths. He did not greet us.

“We need to speak quietly,” I told him. “Like you’re in church.”

He tried. He couldn’t. I didn’t care. He moved through the trails gracefully until he began to run and slid on the loose stones, hurting both his knee and the palm of one hand. He cried and told me he wanted to go home. Within three minutes he was back on the path. He reached the center before me, but told me he took a shortcut. I decided I would, too. When I spoke to him in the center, I heard my voice echo back to me, and thought how I’d love to come back here and do this again.

We left, explored some more of the grounds, and proceeded to the car, which he did, in fact, find with ease. Off to Sleeping Bird Coffee: me for a cappuccino and salad, he for a bagel with cream cheese and a hot cocoa. The library was next. I had a book on hold, and he chose two books on the solar system. I chose two others.

Back at my house he announced that he would be staying in his room all day tomorrow because he wanted to remain five. He conceded to coming out if everyone promised not to celebrate his birthday. I gave him his birthday penny and he ran for the special box on a shelf in the living room. In the box are the other pennies I have given him—one for each year of his life, and one for the day he was born.

2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, and 2021.

“Let’s count them all, Nonna!”

He told me he was excited about his party. He told me who was coming. He said I could come early if I wanted to. He said there would be a water slide and his friends would be in both the front and back of his house. If there was someone I wanted to talk to, he would go get her for me.

My daughter came to pick him up but not before we played soccer, watched videos, did some summer school work, played with a puzzle, and sat on the couch with Graycie the cat and Ivy the dog. He read a book to Ivy, preparing her for therapy visits where she will listen to students read. He made us a peanut butter and banana sandwich.

He hugged me before he left. I told him I loved him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Nonna.”

Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.

A Chosen Friendship

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jun 22, 2021 category Stories

Friendships don’t blossom out of nowhere. It had been my experience that they developed out of proximity, shared interests, good fortune. It was rare to choose a lifelong friend, but, choose, I did, on a Sunday morning in 1998.

Our family had just moved to a small mountain town in northern New Jersey where I knew no one outside of my home other than the realtor who had sold us the house. My husband had been transferred to a nearby office, my children were starting school, and, soon I would be alone in this unfamiliar environment where it was not uncommon to see a black bear at one’s bird feeder.

We explored the new town: the antique stores, the library, the ice cream shop near the lake, the coffee shop on Main Street. I felt like a visitor, passing through on her way elsewhere. We attended a number of churches, but hadn’t found one that felt like home until we landed at the little white church across the street from the coffee shop.

My family of four sat toward the front nearest the windows. Still feeling disconnected, I looked to the front of the church for something to anchor me: the familiar cross, the keyboard, the pulpit. The worship team walked out, testing the microphones, checking in with one another about songs and whatever it is that people discuss in whispers. It was then that I saw her.

She had blonde hair, an attractive smile, and an effervescent personality that made it hard for her to stand still. She was part of the team, and yet, she seemed uniquely independent. When the music started, she began to sing, and her voice was like that of an angel—a gritty, accessible, free-flying angel. I was certain that if this were 1969, the woman would have been at Woodstock. I knew I had to meet her.

After service, I tried approaching her, but she was surrounded by people. I waved, nodded my head in an appreciative manner, and politely bowed out. I thought about her all day. That blonde woman.

In the early evening, my husband and I took our children to a small neighborhood lake. While they played in the sand, he and I sat on a bench near the water. Waves of sadness were beginning to wash over me—feelings of not belonging. Lost in my thoughts, I looked out onto the water. From across the lake, an object came into focus, a rowboat gliding in our direction. It was a comforting site, a slow, methodical movement across the sun-drenched water. As the boat got closer, I noticed there was one person inside, steadily rowing, rowing, rowing. It was the woman with the blonde hair.

She pulled up to the dock, wrapped the rope around a cleat hitch, and walked over to a nearby bench. With a rapidly-beating heart, I said hello, and when she seemed approachable, I introduced myself, telling her how much I had enjoyed her singing that morning. Her name, I learned, was Cathy.
We spoke for over an hour—eventually sharing one bench. I generally take my time with new friendships, assessing their reliability before sharing too much of myself. But, she and I trusted one another immediately. There was a heart connection that allowed us to both speak and listen. In the early days of our friendship, our conversations revolved around raising school-aged children. Through the years, those conversations evolved to deeper matters of mothering adults, and nurturing grandchildren. We have allowed ourselves confessions without judgment, admissions without explanation Always there was room for our own interests and the sharing of dreams, paint colors, gardening tips. There were tears, and always raucous laughter.

After eight years, our family moved to Maryland and eventually to Delaware; Cathy remained in New Jersey. Distance was never a deterrent to our friendship, no matter the miles. Sometimes we’d meet halfway and spend the day shopping and having lunch in New Hope, Pennsylvania. In summer we’d meet at the Jersey Shore. We’d visit in each other’s homes. She’d share irises, wild geranium, astible, purple coneflower, black-eyed Susan, and primrose from her garden, and I’d plant them in the soil of my new home.

Though much has changed over the 23 years of friendship, what remains is our love for one another.. What continues to grow from the roots we established on that park bench on a lake in a mountain town in northwestern New Jersey, are the strong branches of a well-established friendship, and the blossoms of shared hopes and experiences. I am reminded of the choice I made while sitting in that little white church on a Sunday morning, and I am forever grateful.

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.