I begin each morning pretty much the same way.
I stretch in bed for a few minutes. I make tea. Then I’ll sit in the bay of my living room and write in my journal.
Easily filling up several pages, I’ll write out complete conversations I have with God, giving special attention to moments from the previous day where I want to acknowledge my efforts or extend myself compassion.
My dog India, a spaniel-poodle mix, will follow me from bed to bathroom to kitchen to the table where I write. She’ll curl up at my feet quietly until about 7:20 when she’ll start trying to get my attention.
She’ll make a sort of whimpering sound, not from pain so much as from trying to get my attention. If I don’t close my notebook and blow out my lightly scented candle within a few minutes, she may start pawing the rug or barking.
We’ll pad to the kitchen where I‘ll feed her breakfast. I’ll put on shoes or boots (sometimes, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet), stuff a few plastic bags in the pockets of my jacket and we’ll perform our pre-walk ritual.
I’ll put her into her purple harness, assuming I wasn’t lazy the night before and didn’t bother to take it off following our last trip outside.
She seems to make this simple step a game. I can’t tell if she does this on purpose or if I’m especially uncoordinated in the morning. Probably, it’s a bit of both.
I untangle the harness, a mixture of water-proofed cloth, nylon leads and metal loops, ready to attach her leash at the back of her neck. I’ll spread out an opening in the flat nylon bands then try to coax her to step into the space I’ve made.
But no. Either both paws will be poking through where one should be or she’ll step down completely outside of the area required for me to secure the contraption under her belly. Or, she won’t move her paws at all and I’ll have to fish them through their respective openings.
She’ll make this process take much longer than necessary. But doing this sort of thing quickly is not the point. Not to her. Maybe I’m in a hurry to get outside and get her to do her business, breathe a few breaths of fresh air and get home quickly so that I can read my emails, but those things aren’t important to her.
She just wants to interact with me, to play or just to hang out for as long as possible.
After I get her harness on, she’ll wait by the door patiently until she can hear the sound of the leash click around the ring on the back of her neck. I wouldn’t think she would want to be so connected. Here again, I realize she has a different way of viewing things.
Being on the opposite end of the leash is not about me controlling her. It’s about us being bonded. I believe in her eyes, it’s about me belonging to her.
She doesn’t run down the stairs as soon I open the door of my second floor apartment. She waits for me to start the descent. If I let go of the leash and motion her to go ahead, she’ll wait for me on the landing.
Once I took her to the River Park dog area. Within the gated space, I took off her leash only to find her looking at me quizzically. She didn’t move. I waved my hands. “Go play,” I cried out.
I threw a rubber ball in the direction of the playground, but she just watched me, as if asking me “What am I supposed to do? Don’t you just want to hang out with me in the sunshine?”
Yes, when she doesn’t want to follow the route I’ve planned (usually when she can tell I want to go home before she’s done exploring), she will sit down on the grass between the street and the sidewalk and make herself an immoveable object, challenging me to overcome her nineteen pounds of willful puppy flesh.
For the most part, we have a way of negotiating how long to stay out and in which direction we’ll travel. Sometimes I’ll defer to the allure of scents she picks up and will follow her. Sometimes, especially if the wind is strong, she’ll surrender her resistance and let me lead her to the green door of our building.
As we take our first steps outside of my building, I’ll often wonder if I ‘m walking her or if she’s walking me.
Taking a walk with a friend is no small thing.
Deb! What a wonderful post! Mia, our Lab-Hound, originally a PAWS dog, first whines, rubs her eyes and paces. When I am finally ready with my shoes, keys, phone, etc, I call her over to sit. Every day she sits then as I am poised to slip the harness over her head, she abruptly stands up, then sits down again to complete the procedure. Then I whisper – pony – meaning our little pony. As you know we had two chihauhaus, Mammas and Paco, who both passed last year. Albert asked them for a cute small dog and who came to us is Mia, all 78 pounds of her. Our little pony taught us the hard way–I developed a hernia and Albert was knocked unconscious and recovered in the hospital for two days! My PAWS volunteer friend Judy referred us to Manny who taught us many things, primarily, tug and don’t pull. There is a lot to walking with a friend. I think of you Deb when I walk the house broken dogs at the PAWS medical Center–I learned to be still and listen to the dog, follow the dog and be still with the dog where ever their nose takes them (just not into danger!). Paco taught me a lot as well–toward the end of our walks he would stride toward the corner at the school also part of an intersection–one of the streets heads straight toward the lake. Paco would take a warrior stance and sniff the air in the directions. If he were still here he would be the emperor of the sidewalk.