Dog walking

 I originally wrote this last June.

It begins with the scraping of plates with forks. She knows from this sound that the next step, what comes after us sitting at the table and largely ignoring her, is about to take place. She gets to lick plates. She gets to lick pots and pans, sometimes.  Then the shorter one, the one with the higher voice, the one who leaves and comes back over and over, puts the white shoes on her feet. “Go” “Car” “Walk” “Nala.” Those are the signals.

Almost every night of my life since spring of 2011, we have followed this ritual. Some nights it is raining or threatening rain, so the walk is unlikely or impossible. Early on the other shorter dogs, males, Buddy and then Bumper, came with us. But Buddy had to be put to sleep and Bumper was given away, a story we do not need to recount.

Most of the nights after dinner we climb into the Volvo station wagon. She is put in the back but it’s pointless; she comes to the front immediately to get a full view of where we are going, riding shotgun as it were. Where we are going is the local high school, which has wide open parking lots, trails, a track, and other features that make it ideal to walk. As the pandemic eases, more people are using it again. I never stopped. I could not give up my walks, either by myself or with Nala. I refused to believe that walking in good spring air would infect me. So far, it has not. In our county, no one has died yet. A minute fraction of the population has gotten sick, less than .08% of the population.

There are variations, of course. When I am off, or, on weekends or holidays, we might go to another public park, or in the middle of the day; rarely the morning. But the high school property has many benefits; it is well lit, it is not isolated; we sometimes see deer or ground hogs or rabbits; there isn’t much traffic, although at times the teenage boys whose parents unwisely bought them trucks might race around the paved parts and run stop signs.

However, the best part of the high school property is that she is used to it, and her need to smell something new is minimal after nine years. When she decides to smell, her muscular 60-lb body is no match for me. I am pulled back. I am also annoyed, or worse, angered. The worst is that I am pulled off my feet. Nala has been the cause of many falls for me over the years, a couple with black eyes. 

I park in the same place; we walk the same route although lately I’ve tried to walk almost a mile more during the pandemic, to make up for my enforced sedentariness. I have walked in 20 degrees and 95 degrees. In June and July we pick blackberries. Well, I pick. She agrees to wait, sacrificing the stalking of rabbits in the thickets. She doesn’t need to get into the bushes and provide a landing platform for ticks. If I were to let her go, she’d get stuck. Or she’d find the creek or wetlands and be a mess.

When I walk, I am first most conscious of the temperature. Then the sun. I protect myself against both. Then I am concerned about the steadiness of my feet so I do not trip or step in an uneven place and turn an ankle or fall. The walking itself if enjoyable. Only after two miles do my feet start to hurt or be aware of the walking. By then the dog is ready to finish. She is now old, her age accelerating seven times faster than mine. In January she was 63, now she would be older than my 64 years if we did the math. When I bring her home, she is ready for a nap. I am, on the other hand refreshed and invigorated.

When I leave the parking lot and take a trail, it is more interesting but more treacherous. There is mud. There is broken ground. A tree or large branch might have fallen in the path. There are insects, the worst of them ticks, which I despise. A few years ago I had to go to emergency care to get a tick removed. As a child I yearned to torture the critters with lit matches. But sometimes we are, or at least I am, rewarded with something special. The best was an blue gray egret, which I was able to photograph as it posed in a tree for me before spreading its expanse of wings and flying off. It returns, though; I see it sometimes, swooping high. There are owls and hawks and buzzards, the last ready for squirrels or possums that misread traffic and end up dead.

Walking is for thinking. I do not talk to Nala much; I am not above giving her a shove with my foot (not technically a kick) if she decides to “pull my arm off” by smelling too intensely and suddenly. I have to watch. She will eat things she has no business putting in her mouth.

I have not identified her breed. She is a pit bull or pit mix. Obviously there are issues in having a dog like this, but when it comes to walking the only issue is her strength. Female and small, she is still incredibly muscular and tough. She can sustain my weight pulling on her leash, and I am not a small person. Her brindle coat often elicits compliments, “Beautiful dog,” to which I say thank you, and often add, she’s a pill.  To her, I say she is a turd. When she gets a “she’s pretty,” I remind her she’s ugly. It’s an old joke. The dog doesn’t understand anyway.

A mile in, my body has warmed up, and I can either stop shivering in winter or take off a jacket, or in summer, start wiping my forehead. I look up a lot; I see geese, or planes, or copters, or hawks. I see clouds. I try to go when the sun is ending its workday, so I can avoid its rays.

I trudge on. I know I am not a pretty sight when I walk. The dog is often fighting me and I respond without grace toward her doggie self; I am not graceful; I am old and heavy, but I walk briskly. I know I am the crazy dog-walking lady with the pitbull, but no one can take issue with my constancy.