7:21 a.m. 30 degrees, wind NNE 2 mph, less snow on branches and trunks, otherwise looks and feels like yesterday. Sky: disheveled gray blanket, the sun rises unnoticed (by me, at least). Permanent streams: yesterday, all over again, the tributaries' version of Groundhog Day. However, no sign of Bill Murray in the woods. Wetlands: dull lighting, a suspension of visible activity (red squirrels and chickadees, prominent marsh-rim ambassadors, hushed and hobbled by a flat and lifeless morning). Pond: no new contribution to deer calligraphy, day-old tracks widened by yesterday's sunshine.
Hairy woodpecker politely drilling into a maple. Crows and jays calling. Crows high overhead. Jays low, and through the treetops, flashes of noisy blue and white. Off the beaten path: white-breasted nuthatch, soft, nasal calls. Yank, yank, yank. Not the metallic tooting of red-breasted nuthatches, conspicuous by their absence. Twenty (a very rough count) red crossbills, call attention to themselves, pass over the road, and vanish in the pines. Ernie, the Hungarian partridge, on the walkway leading to the porch, coat inflated. An exaggerated oval of a bird, like a small, brown-mottled Teletubby. Scooting around the yard, a windup toy of a bird. Ernie's not crazy about gray squirrels, for whom he gives ground . . . over and over and over. Day after day.
Spring 1998: I have an idea that would be good for the whole family, Linny announced, on the eve of chemotherapy. Teddy, please keep an open mind. The boys need a dog, she said. There's a border collie puppy for sale in Woodstock, the last one in the litter.
Background on the boys, then ten and two. Casey, the older, was a cross between Alan Dershowitz and Derek Jeter. If he wasn't playing ball, he was debating the finer points of responsibility and parental discipline. Casey was focused and alert, but sometimes when he played with friends, my pleas fell on deaf ears. On the other hand, Jordan was too young to have discovered the superpower of selective hearing. In his world, there was still a thin line between toys and living things.
It had been four years before our last dog died. A tall, princely mix of Afgan and collie, an obedient homeboy that played well with children, Reggie was going to be a tough act to follow. But for a naturalist, life without a dog wasn't all bad. The year after Reggie died, our yard had transformed into a personal sanctuary for wildlife. Mammals and birds scavenged the deer carcasses I placed in the side yard. One spring, a pair of gray foxes raised six kits in the brambles, less than a hundred yards from my studio door. Foxes caught squirrels in the front yard, mice and woodchucks in the garden. Nursed on the lawn.
When Linny brought the idea of a puppy to the entire family, I change my position. The following morning, we drove to Woodstock. After Berra, the Yankee hall of fame catcher, our puppy, Yogi, was bright-eyed, big-footed, black and white. He had two immediate missions: herd Jordan and chew upholstery.
Every morning at sunrise, I walked Yogi (some things have never changed). When he was still young, I enrolled him in obedience school. Near the end of each session, puppies were simultaneously unleashed. After a few minutes, one at a time, owners called their puppies. After each puppy reported to his master, the puppy was given a treat and then freed to resume play. One evening, Yogi, who had responded well to drills, became distracted during free-play. Come, Yogi, come. Yogi come. Finally, after my voice transitioned from exuberance to urgency, Yogi arrived. Good boy, Yogi. We'll do better next time.
Later that night, on the long ride home from obedience school, Casey, reclining and on the verge of sleep, said, Pop, Yogi and I are a lot alike. When friends are around, we can be easily distracted.
Birds have been distracting me for decades, but particularly during the past ten months . . . why stop now?
I love to learn about Linny and your boys and dogs. Thank you for sharing today.
I just found this transcript of your 2017 VPR "Transition and Hope":
https://www.vpr.org/post/levin-transition-and-hope#stream/0
Thanks for the reminder that, as Aldous Huxley said, “Experience is not what happens to you; it's what you do with what happens to you.” Your newsletter and John Snell's blog "Still Learning to See" https://stilllearningtosee.com/ show me that this virus doesn't own me--and I thank you both. John lives in Montpelier and told me about you--do hope you two can meet someday.