I’ve always had dogs. We bred Cocker Spaniels when I was a
kid and they were just part of the menagerie that included cats, rats, turtles
and hermit crabs. But I’ve always had dogs. In my married life, we’ve been
through three, with the latest being a shepard mix named Kyla. Our dogs have
been companions, protectors, jesters and confessors and we’ve always treated
them as part of the family. Except, we didn’t always take them for walks. Our
(my) excuse is that I’ve always had a big back yard for them to run around in.
Or I didn’t have time. Or I wanted to take the kids for a walk. Whatever.
Kyla needs to walk. When we get out the leash, she goes into
paroxysm of joy, wiggling with her whole body, eyes adoringly switching between
you and the front door. Doesn’t matter the time of day, how long the walk is or
who it taking her—she’s always game. I, personally, walk for exercise. When I
walk, I want to go, I want to sweat, I want to feel my calves burning at the
end. Kyla walks for the smells. She loves to smell all things. People, garbage,
grass, leaves, pavement. When she finds something especially wonderful to
smell, she will throw her 95-lb body to the ground, spreading out all four
limbs and stay there until all the lovely aroma has been fully absorbed. There
is no moving her at these times.
Our needs did not mesh. If I took Kyla for a walk, I didn’t
get a workout and got very frustrated, pulling the dog, feeling that I was
wasting my time. Not being a speaking creature, Kyla doesn’t say “Hey, I need
to smell this bush now, stop yanking my chain!” but I’m sure she was thinking
it. I needed to sweat, she needed to smell. So, I went on walks by myself,
pushing her away as I tied my sneakers, petting and hugging her when I returned
home, but leaving her there as I took care of myself. Until one day, I couldn’t
resist the sad, puppy dog eyes and leashed her up, purely for her own
enjoyment. We walked about half a mile. I didn’t look at my watch, I didn’t
pull on her leash. When she wanted to stop, we stopped. When she wanted to
cross the path, we crossed the path. When she began panting, we turned around
and went home. It was a great walk.
My dog taught me to recognize that I couldn’t always do it
all. Sometimes, a walk is just a walk. Sometimes grass needs to be smelled.
This is why I have a dog—sometimes she’s smarter than I am.
