Dog Days

These days are an island

I look out the window of the airplane. I see the green fields of Iowa come into view. I can feel the tension leave my body.

I walk up the stairs of our split-level mid-century house nestled in the trees. I kiss Annie on the lips and breathe her in—I’m home. Our French Bulldogs, Bentley and Dozer, greet me with a joy that makes me cry.

I unpack my rucksack and store it away. Luggage makes the dogs anxious. When my rucksack or Annie's roller bag comes out of the closet, panic sets in—they know one of us or both of us is leaving, that their routine is about to be disrupted. Their anguish hangs heavy in the house and makes us limit our trips and the time we spend away, particularly trips together. There are places we want to go, things we want to see, but mostly, we'd rather stay home with our boys.

When I am away on tour, Dozer will carry one of my used socks from room to room and guard it vigilantly until I return. Every slight noise outside the front of the house grabs their attention, and they stand at the top of the stairs, hopeful that it's me coming back. They whimper and sigh when it's not. But now I am here—I lie on the floor as they climb all over me, licking and pawing me.

We sit out on the deck with the dogs, perched on a ridge overlooking the Des Moines River. Carolina Wrens have made a nest in a hanging flowerpot and are chattering at us to leave. But this is our happy place, and they’re going to have to get used to us.

We make our tea and climb into bed for the night with the dogs and our books. Bentley does circles and paws the blanket to prepare his sleeping area—he’s a professional sleeper and is snoring within seconds, while Dozer works on a nylon bone.

From our first place together on Lake St. in Huntington Beach, California, to here in our treehouse in Des Moines, Iowa, our bed has sailed through the ocean of night filled with cats, dogs, babies, and kids—a vessel of love, family, and togetherness—a shared bed, a shared life. We close our eyes at night with each other in sight.

I'm stroking Dozer's head in the soft blue light of the morning. He looks like a baby in my arms—content, happy. He snores gently; he feels safe. Bentley nestles in tight to my body like a bolster. Annie rolls over and gently kisses Dozer's face. These are the moments to make last, these are the moments we'll wish for in the end, so we live them now.

The highlight of every day for the dogs is their walks. Most days, they enjoy two walks, unless the weather prevents it. On particularly good days, they might get three walks. Bentley knows the routine well and even dictates it. His internal clock tells him when it's time for a walk, and he starts to press and beg if there's any delay. When we finally give in to his demands and ask him, Do you wanna…? We rarely ever finish the sentence before he starts slam-dancing around in excitement—bouncing off our legs and the walls, almost flying like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer—I'm cute, she said, I'm cute.

Dozer likes his walks too—but whereas Bentley is euphoric, Dozer seems triggered by Bentley’s intensity and paces back and forth in a seemingly confused frenzy that reminds us of Steve Carell’s character, Brick, in Anchorman—I don’t know what we’re yelling about—loud noises.

The dogs drag us around the block. Bentley knows the residence of every other dog in the neighborhood and gets an extra pep in his step upon approaching their houses. He dares them to be out in the yard, and if they are, his hair lifts along his spine; he takes a quick bite of the grass and lets out a very non-threatening bark. We laugh every time. Dozer rarely participates in Bentley’s obsession with the other dogs. He has his eyes on squirrels and bunnies. And upon seeing one, he gets down like a cat stalking prey, then bursts forward until the leash stops his advance, and by then the squirrel or bunny is long gone. There’s always a neighbor to comment, Who’s walking who? That old chestnut.

When I get back from a run or a ride, Dozer is there waiting for one of my wet socks. As I peel it from my foot, he licks his lips in anticipation. And those first ten minutes that he has it are the most dangerous ten minutes of our day. Drunk on the vintage, he is paranoid that everyone and everything—every noise, and movement is conspiring to take his precious away, especially Bentley.

Bentley does everything in his power to avoid Dozer’s aggression. Sock or no sock, Dozer is always in his face, exerting his alpha status, to which Bentley will lie down, feigning narcolepsy, close his eyes like a Zen Master, and begin snoring. Dozer stands there confounded.

Now, it’s Annie’s turn to break their little hearts. She travels to Las Vegas for four days to spend time with Lucy at The Dance Awards. Lucy grew up at this annual event, where she made a name for herself and began her dance career. She returns now as a choreographer and a judge. All those years driving to dance class, traveling around the country to conventions, have come full circle. I want to be there too, but it’s my turn to stay home with the dogs. These, I decide, are the dog days.

The car gets parked in the garage, social media apps get deleted from my phone, my laptop is powered off, and I ignore the TV remote entirely. I determine that every minute, of every hour, of every day is dedicated solely to the dogs. These days are an island—where we will live outside of time, where we will spend every moment together.

Bentley, a blue Frenchie with peanut butter-dipped paws and root beer-colored eyes, is a lover; he is sweetness personified. He vocalizes every tender thought in his head and the devotion in his heart with every breath he takes in a sort of never-ending song. Even in his sleep, his lie continues as he snores away. He is happiest on a walk but is just as enthusiastic about curling up on the couch or getting into bed for the night. Once a day or so, he'll get excited and break out in uninhibited play, but after a few minutes, he'll retreat to his bed.

Our Christmas baby, Bentley, was waiting under the tree when Annie got home from work on Christmas Eve in 2018. A heartfelt gift from Lucy to Annie for all the years of supporting her dancing: taking her to classes, conventions, photoshoots, and auditions—being there for her throughout her whole journey, and even taking a job specifically to pay for her dance classes. We had two other Frenchies at that time, Bentley’s surrogate grandmothers, Rizzo and JoJo. Three dogs seemed like too many to take on, but little did we know that in just over a year, both JoJo and Rizzo would pass. Bentley was five months old when he came home to us—the last dog left of his litter, and the breeder was resigned to keeping him for himself. Then, Lucy called.

Our hearts broke when we lost JoJo—I watched from a hotel room on Facetime as she closed her eyes and slipped away. We immediately attempted to distance ourselves from the pain of her passing by impulsively buying a puppy, our baby boy, Nuggy. Then, we lost Rizzo a month later, and suddenly it was only Bentley and Nuggy.

Sadly, Nuggy's life was cut tragically short. He died suddenly in June of 2022, and his death destroyed us. We swore then, in that tempest, that we'd never open our hearts to so much pain again, but within weeks, Baby-Dozer came home to us.

Dozer, a merle Frenchie (white coat with gray and black blotches, patches, and speckling), got his name from Nuggy, the brother he never met. At night, when Nuggy got into bed, he would plow into our bodies and legs repeatedly—we called this dozering. He did it so much that we often said we should have named him Dozer. So, to honor and remember Nuggy, we gave the new pup Nuggy’s nickname—and as it turns out, he also dozers and reminds us of his beloved brother in so many other ways.

Dozer is a stubborn, jealous, angry boy—we call him Mr. Growley (think: Ozzy Osbourne, Mr. Crowley). He’ll growl if you try to move or direct him physically, or if you touch his butt while he’s guarding a toy. If you stare him in the eyes or make a spastic movement, he’ll rush you as a warning to stop. He never makes good on any threats, but he’s full of them all day long. Somehow, his bad-boy disposition makes us love him even more. And the thing is, when he is in a loving mood, he’s angelic, the most precious little guy ever—but his love is reserved and earned. His favorite time is playing in the main room of our carpeted walk-out basement, which we call the Romper Room. There, we hold games of fetch and chase, and he is in all his glory.

For breakfast, the boys get chicken mixed in their dry food. Bentley gingerly picks the pieces of chicken out while Dozer, true to his name, plows into the bowl. They must be separated at opposite ends of the kitchen when they eat, as Dozer is protective of his food. If he doesn’t gobble it down in one obnoxious feeding, he’ll guard it throughout the day—growling at anyone who dares go near. He’ll even guard anything he regurgitates, assuming that everybody wants what’s his—even his vomit.

Dinner is beef, their favorite. After they eat, they bury their heads in the water bowl for extended drinks and come up looking like they’ve been bobbing for apples—water dripping off their chins like a faucet, soaking their necks and the floor. Dozer’s neck sometimes remains wet and stained for hours afterwards.

It's late morning, and I'm on my second cup of coffee. A Pileated Woodpecker visits the feeders. I watch Broad-winged Hawks chase each other through and around the trees of the neighborhood while Bentley and Dozer snooze in the sun.

I walk the boys before it gets too hot. They want to stop and sniff everything—I let them.

We curl up on the couch. I read until my eyes grow heavy and then join the dogs for a nap. Rain, thunder, and birdsong are the highlights of the day.

After a round of fetch in the Romper Room, Dozer challenges me to chase him, and I pursue him around my writing table. He circles the table, runs for the stairs, makes a cut back, dekes me, and runs past me around the table again, impressed by his own agility. When we finally tire, Bentley moves in; this is his time—the post play love is his specialty. He licks my face, which I usually cut off after a few licks, but today, I let him lick and lick away.

Before bed, we observe a large White-tailed Buck step into our backyard, foraging alongside Eastern Cottontails as Big Brown Bats dart about overhead. We watch the deer for a long time through our picture gallery windows. The dogs are on edge, their hair standing up, emitting low guttural growls as if to say, That’s our yard.

In the middle of the night, Dozer wakes with a start—he barks and kicks wildly for a second at the foot of the bed, then stands up and comes to me, collapsing into my arms with a deep sigh. We stare out the window into the black woods where fireflies dance. He must have been dreaming about the buck—I know I was—majestic in the golden dusk, his muscular body and fuzzy antlers aglow. We drift back to sleep. Towards morning, Dozer positions himself so that he’s lying across my pillow with his chin pressing down on my skull, making me his pillow. We call this getting chinned down.

Dozer's chin is formidable—more like steel than bone. It's hard and heavy, and he lowers it like the liftgate on a box truck. Throughout the day, he will chin down a foot, a leg, a hand, an arm, but his favorite is to chin down my head in the middle of the night. As he does this, he drifts off into REM sleep, and his teeth start to gnash and grind while he shudders and whimpers, snoring deeply in my ear. As painful and disturbing as it is, I find it comforting, and I take it all happily. We sleep together like this into the dawn.

Another storm approaches. I watch with Bentley and Dozer as a family of five raccoons climbs a tree in our backyard and huddles together. The momma is the most enormous raccoon I’ve ever seen—the size of a small bear. Heavy rain and wind pound them—the branches offering little shelter. Dozer looks at me like, Dad, do you see those guys?

Annie is home—our little family is together again. We snuggle up on the couch with popcorn and watch our shows. These are still the dog days.

Midsummer. I get on my bike and go. How far can I ride? How much can I sweat? What can I see and do? I ride south along the Des Moines River, past downtown, around Easter Lake, into Carlisle, through Summerset State Park, across the Middle River, and into Indianola, where I’ve earned my lunch.

The day begins with two red foxes sunbathing in the neighbor’s driveway. Wild turkeys, White-tailed deer, and woodchucks visit the backyard. Love in the afternoon. Dozer sits proudly on my lap, and we watch the bird feeders—a red-tailed hawk soars over the river.

The wrens have hatched. Mom and Dad are feverishly flying back and forth, bringing large insects to the nest while clamoring for us to vacate the deck. We try to coexist, but they’re not having it.

Poems and pushups. I run, ruck, and ride. On the trail, in the woods—ideas come to me freely. Time on the trail, in motion, is as meaningful as my writing time—they feed each other.

Dozer observes, listens to, and pays close attention to everything Annie and I say and do. He is always trying to understand how our actions relate to him. He follows our every movement and word intently. Sometimes at night, just before we go to sleep, he comes close to our faces and tries to communicate with us. When we say, I love you, he attempts to mimic us in his gruff Mr. Growley voice—no, to tell us, I love you. He grumbles the words between yawns and sneezes, and we reward his efforts with praise and kisses. This effort tires him out, and he settles between us, purring like a cat.

I pedal my bike amongst the butterflies to the song of the cicadas. I ride north along the river, past Saylorville Lake and Red Feather Prairie, into Polk City. I grab a slice of pizza at Casey’s and ride back.

We wake up to the sound of tornado sirens, the dogs know what they mean, and we all head down into the basement. We watch the sky turn green, red, and turquoise as wind and rain crash in. I worry about the birds—the eagles. Later, we walk the boys, and trees are down throughout the neighborhood.

I go birding by bike. I ride the High Trestle Trail from Madrid to Bouton. Through the woods, along cornfields, over creeks, and passing through small towns. I see a juvenile eagle carrying a large fish, cardinals, American Goldfinch—a Great Blue Heron stalks the shallows of the Des Moines River—a Pileated Woodpecker calls out through the trees. A baby deer watches me cautiously. A frog leaps across the trail in front of me. I smile.

We add a hummingbird feeder to the deck, and word gets out immediately. I sit with Annie, reading books while Ruby-throated Hummingbirds chirp their approval.

Summer is winding down, the wrens are long gone, acorns are falling, and leaves begin to decorate the trail. I watch Great Egrets migrating over the river. I take the boys out at night before bed and marvel at the full moon behind a screen of translucent lace-like clouds. I shine my flashlight up into the trees and see a raccoon’s glowing yellow eyes watching us from a branch high in the burr oak.

We travel to California for Emily’s baby shower. Leaving the dogs is one of the hardest things we do. People say, Oh, they’re just dogs—not to us. The girl we have watching Bentley and Dozer does an excellent job and often raves about how well-behaved they are. It makes us wonder if they are better behaved for her than for us. While it might seem odd, we find joy in the fact that they misbehave with us—we’re their people.

We stay at Emily and Brandon’s—Lucy is here too; our family is together. Annie and Lucy help Emily with preparing decorations for the party and I help Brandon rearrange furniture. We have dinner at Super-Mex.

I go for a run with Lucy. We park in our old neighborhood in Naples and walk across the 2^nd Street bridge into Belmont Shore. We run along the beach and up and down the stairs on the bluffs.

Family and friends gather at Emily and Brandon’s for the party. It’s a perfect afternoon in Southern California. The place looks fantastic—Emily’s talent for interior design and her party-planning skills are on full display, even though it's her baby shower; she has taken the lead. We catch up with Brandon’s family and reconnect with extended family and friends we haven’t seen in a while. Everyone congratulates me on soon becoming a grandfather. I can see Emily’s baby bump, and I know that Baby Ella is growing inside her. However, just like when Annie was pregnant with Emily, it’s still hard for me to fully wrap my head around it.

Dusk descends, and the only people left are the immediate families and our niece Abby, who flew in from Pennsylvania. We have pizza in the dining room—it was a beautiful party, and everything worked out. The next time we see Brandon’s parents, we will both be first-time grandparents.

Back to Iowa, back to our dogs, back to our clockwork days of conversation, laughter, and affection. This is the goal—domestic felicity. While we miss our children, our nest isn't empty; we fill it with a love that continues to grow and endure.

I ride the Owl Trail through South Sycamore to Top Shelf and the Lake Loop Trail in North Sycamore, through the overcast woods. Sunflowers crane their necks towards the diffused sun. I pause at Beaver Crossing and watch the creek flow into the river and count my blessings. I race home to Annie, the dogs, and dinner.

The quiet routine of home—every morning is a painting, every day is a dream. As far as the eye can see, tree tops glow—the river, a sheet of glass, reflects the pink and blue cotton candy sky. The dogs lie at my feet; I pick up my pen and begin to write.

Thanks for reading!

Read my previous journal entries here.