The Walk
The dog stepped onto the porch and raised her nose to check on the neighborhood. She inhaled. The neighbors mowed their lawn yesterday. The angry mutt across the street hadn’t been outside yet this morning. Somebody nearby had recently arrived home with donuts for their family’s breakfast.
“Come on”, said the man. He was eager to get going. He always was. The dog knew he enjoyed these weekly Sunday morning walks. She did, too. Sunday morning walks were long, and she got to take the man beyond the comfortable confines of the neighborhood. They were peaceful and filled with unique smells. Today’s weather was perfect, too: calm, crisp, cool. The dog knew that the man relished this sort of morning. She would be patient today so that the man could savor every moment along the way.
She tugged at the leash to let him know it was time to go.
Together they stepped off the porch, followed the front walk to the driveway, and descended the driveway to the sidewalk. This was familiar territory for the dog, of course, but it was important to start the walk here. It was her responsibility to keep up with the neighborhood discourse, after all, and she would not fail to check and reply to the voluminous peemail left for her. She guided the man from mailbox to mailbox, taking particular note of the backlog of messages at the fire hydrant on the corner. The man never seemed interested in this part of the walk. What a shame. But the dog couldn’t blame him for tugging anxiously at her leash, begging her to hurry. The best part of the walk lie ahead of them.
First, though, they would need to cross the busy street. It was quieter on Sunday mornings, but she would still need to be careful. The man feared the busy street, she knew, and he always stopped at its edge. No matter. The dog waited for him to gain his confidence. When she sensed he was ready, she stepped off the curb and pulled the leash taut to urge him along. He followed. He always followed her across the street because he trusted her. “Hurry!”, she signaled to the man. “Your favorite part of the walk is near!”.
And it was. Just across a small bridge and down a small hill was what they had come for: the short-cut grasses, clovers, dandelions, and other groundcover; the tall grasses, much taller than the dog, turned brown and dry by the end of summer and arrival of autumn; the trees of all different shapes and sizes, some with smooth bark and others with rough bark, some with acorns or pods or, at a different time of year, fruits, most of which were dropping their leaves to the ground where the dog could inspect them; the creek, with its slow, meandering flow of shallow water; and among it all the scent of uncountably many humans and dogs and rodents and birds and insects and so much more – maybe even opossums or raccoons or foxes, if she were lucky.
The dog had a skip in her trot as she led the man to the sensory smorgasbord. He followed, his steps light and quick. The dog thrust her nose to the ground, zagging this way and zigging the other. The man stood still, closed his eyes, and inhaled. The dog dove into the tall grass. The man brushed his hand along the tops of the dried blades. The dog froze to watch a squirrel foraging for acorns beneath a tree. The man watched a leaf float atop the water, lazily making its way downstream, bumping rocks and sticks as it went.
There was so much to explore! The dog was tempted to stay in one place – and she sometimes did for a minute or two – but she knew she needed to keep the man moving or she would never get him back home. She could tell the man was in his happy place. That made her happy, too.
The dog and the man came to the turn-around point, another bridge where they crossed to the other side. The man’s pace slowed. The dog slowed, too. She wasn’t ready for the walk to near its end any more than he was. Together they took in the scene. The dog sat. The man spoke.
“I love these walks,” he said. The dog cocked her head. The man wasn’t finished. She waited.
“Things are changing at home. There are kids. Mom and I are busier. Work is stressful. I don’t always give you the time you deserve. We don’t get out to walk every day. I’m sorry.” He locked eyes with her. “You’re a good girl, Daisy.”
“I love these walks,” the man repeated, “and I hope we never lose them.”
The dog let the man have his moment. A grasshopper clung to a nearby tree stump. A meadowlark warbled from its perch atop a long-forgotten metal fence post. Somewhere children squealed as they played in their yard.
When the time was right, they continued together along the creek’s edge. Their fun and exploration continued. The dog even discovered the scent of not just one raccoon, but a whole family of them! The man laughed at her excitement. But soon he tugged at the leash. He was ready to return home.
So she led him there. She knew the way. She helped the man cross the street, checked the hydrant one more time, trotted back up the driveway, and bounded up the front steps. Once safely at home the man felt comfortable enough to release himself from her by unhooking his leash. While he did so, he stroked her over her head and behind her ear and said, “You’re a good girl, Daisy”. He opened the front door.
There would be many more Sunday morning walks like that one, the dog thought. She was sure of it.
