These Times

Our dog, our boy Alexander and Carrie Brownstein

Kirk Ericson | May 30, 20240

Carrie Brownstein, a singer and the guitarist for the punk group Sleater-Kinney, and the co-creator and co-star of the off-kilter TV series “Portlandia,” lived four homes down from us for a few years in Olympia.

You know how hard it can be to find a movie or show that anyone of any age in your house will watch on TV? Mrs. Ericson and I discovered, when our youngest son was about 14, that we all liked “Portlandia.” For a couple of years on New Year’s Eve, we watched “Portlandia” episodes all night. We laughed together.

Carrie’s presence in our neighborhood came around the new millennium, about the time when a headline over a music writer’s column in Time magazine declared Sleater-Kinney the nation’s best rock band, which probably cost the band credibility in the punk scene.

I would have liked to talk with our neighbor the rock star, but our paths never intersected. I’d see her out walking and we’d exchange hellos and nods from across the lane, but it never went beyond that.

But one day, our dog fled the house, and Carrie, our oldest son, Alexander, and I had a moment together.

Our dog, Aero, was a puppy at the time. He was part blue heeler (odd, because he never heeled) and part jack rabbit. Blue heelers were bred to herd sheep and cattle, so Aero was nimble and quick. If we weren’t attentive when opening the front door, Aero would bolt.

He’d sometimes turn around at the head of the driveway and give us a look that said, “C’mon! Catch me if you can!”

If he didn’t want to be caught, he couldn’t be caught. We had to wait for him to tire or get hungry.

Aero escaped home a lot in his puppy days, and it could take 30 minutes to corral him. When he’d flee, I’d engage Alexander, then in elementary school, in the pursuit because we’d have to cut through backyards to catch our puppy. People are less likely to shoot or call the cops if they see a dad and his little son in their backyard, rather than a man alone. Little children diminish homeowners’ insecurity levels.

One rosy day, Aero ended up in Carrie Brownstein’s yard, with Alexander and I in hot pursuit. We entered the yard and started calling Aero’s name, and our voices and Aero’s barks drew Carrie from her home.

The house has a stoop with four steps situated near the rear of the house, the door opening into a full view of the yard. Carrie opened the door. I’d like to remember it as though she was striding on stage, but I don’t trust my memory on that score.

Aero had treed Carrie’s kitty in a tall maple tree, and our dog was at the base, his front paws scratching for traction so he could ascend and settle whatever disagreement he had with the rock star’s pet.

I was able to grab Aero’s collar, and Alexander turned toward Carrie, asking whether she’s the rock star he’s heard about. My memory has her smiling sweetly in response.

Then, Carrie Brownstein started calling her kitty to coax it down from the tree.

“Here kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty.”

Her voice was enchanting, confident, lyrical. Again, I’d like to think my memory includes Aero, Ryan and I going silent so we could enjoy the sound of Carrie’s singing voice.

The whole episode lasted no more than three minutes, but that was enough. The sun was out, our boy was young, Aero wasn’t dead yet and we got to hear Carrie Brownstein sing “Here kitty, kitty. Here kitty, kitty.”

That was a good day.