Tonight when I arrived home from work, I was so tired I needed to lay down for a while before I took the Mdog for her evening walk. When we lived in Alameda Point during our brief return to California a few years ago, one of the highlights for us and the Mdog was running into our neighbor Pat Spooner - a crusty New-Englander who occupied a Big White ex-officer's home like we did. She had quarters in what must have once been the maid's room of to the side of the laundry, which gave her some independence living there, sharing the sprawling place with her son and daughter-in-law.

Ms. Spooner always had biscuits, and I don't know who looked forward to these encounters more - her or the dog. If we walked by when she wasn't there on her lawn swing, Mdog would look longingly at the empty spot as we approached, and keep looking back and pausing as we passed by and it receded behind us. Then when we would next see Pat, she would be unable to conceal her disappointment that we hadn't been by when she was there - waiting with her biscuits. She loved the Mummadog, and worked at winning her over so she could stroke Mdog's ears and neck - an experience unavailable to ordinary folks, who are untrusted by Mdog.

But tonight, walking Mdog around our familiar route, admiring the orange tinged low clouds against the darkening azure sky and higher whiter clouds mixing with the shreds of high mid-continent fly-over airliner contrails, as usual we found no one pleasant to run into or share a comfortable moment with. I stopped by the mailbox as we approached the house, and fetched out a few pieces of junk mail and a postcard. Who do we know who is traveling, I wondered?



Walking toward the house, as I read the card, tears welled in my eyes. It was from Pat's son, David, who had us over for dinner one evening in the big white house with him and Pat and his wife and their big goofy cat.

It was so good of David to send us the card. I had called Pat now and then at her new apartment back in Maine, where she she had spent her last few years, more or less during the same time we have been here in Fort Collins. I sensed when we spoke that she felt sort of ill at ease in her new location, even though she had missed New England while in California, and I shared with her my similar discomfort here in Colorado. She and I both complained about our predicament while we were there in Alameda on the old naval base, but it was clear that we both missed the moments when we stopped by and the biscuits were dispensed along with kind words and occasional wisdom.

Pat remembered tonight Ms. Spooner's stated regret that during her life she had not taken more chances. I think about this as I recall the call center routine, and how easy it would be to tolerate the situation indefinitely to avoid taking any chances on something beyond.

We almost got to see Pat Spooner in New England last fall, when I tried to throw together a long road trip to see the fall color and various relatives along the way. I told her about our plans, and I felt so bad when I had to call and tell her we had reconsidered, and might try again next year. I have a feeling that no matter what we might have experienced on that trip, seeing her would have been among the most special of times. I know this would have been true for the Mdog, and for Ms. Spooner - because of the Mdog more than us.

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