Walking the Dog

If tonight’s walk were a children’s book, here are some potential titles: 

Say Hello to My Butt: Dogs We Meet on the Street

Will Your Dog Eat Grass?

Ramona: Building Bridges of Friendship and Understanding

Kids: Friend or Foe?

Cat poop consumed: yes

It sometimes helps on days like this to imagine a different fate as a way to jumpstart the sluggish biorythms. What if I’d been born into a New England preppy family and this morning I’m walking my twin golden retrievers, Brandy and Brooks, on the path that follows the rocky Maine coast where we have our summer cottage. I’ll go sailing later and admire how straight my hair is, even with the spray and humidity. In the evening I’ll enjoy civilized cocktails on the porch and laugh in a throaty, well-bred fashion. I would be stylish and idle and interesting in my espadrilles, instead of being a 41-year-old knocked up woman in an orange poncho doing a lame 20-minute walk with a pair of poop-eating dogs.

Cat poop consumed: yes

I keep thinking there must be some garden or house work to do that I’m forgetting but really there isn’t. The floor is swept, the bathtub is scuz-free, the bolted spinach is on its way to compost. L. has to make a website and be industrious (Mr. T sez: I pity the non-Drupal-usin’ foo!), but the dogs and I are free to take a long walk under the hazelnut trees on this lovely morning.

Cat poop consumed: no

It was so hot that I wanted the dogs to get some water before we looped back through the field, so we went the extra quarter mile to the pond on the Millrace. There seemed to be firm ground under the reeds so Ramona tentatively stepped toward the water’s edge but soon found herself up to her chest in the water. Jones went in up to his neck in pond goo. He morphed into the frisky wet dog, rolled in the foxtails, and tried to stir up a wrestling match with Ramona. But it was short-lived. As soon as we hit the bark path, he succumbed to heat-induced torpor, poor little solar cooker that he is.

Cat poop consumed: no

I’ve got poncho fever, thanks to the Goodwill in Reedsport. Turns out a pumpkin-colored wool-blend poncho–with or without fringe–is the perfect layering garment for cool, overcast mornings in late June. Mine does not have pockets, however, which is a problem when one wears a skirt lacking similar storage while walking the dogs. No place for keys or poop bags or the iPod. But here is another benefit of the poncho: one can slip the iPod into the cup of one’s feminine support garment and the poncho cleverly hides the bulge and keeps the headphone cord out of the way. Just tie the poop bags to the leashes and you’re set.

Cat poop consumed: yes

Use the following vocab word in a paragraph:  enervate

Okay, how about this, L. said. One of us takes the dogs for a walk and the other goes to Gross Out and gets fig newtons and a frozen pizza. I yawned from my seat on the couch and knew my choice was clear. The thought of getting in the car and shopping makes me feel even more enervated, I said. So I support this two-party solution but can I have the dog walk?

Cat poop consumed: no

Once again, Ramona met the love of her life in a tiny Chihuahua job that willingly submitted to Ramona’s attentions. She likes to get them on the ground between her paws and just nose them around. It’s very gentle but she doesn’t let up. Eventually this guy tried to seek refuge between its person’s legs and Ramona sat there in front of them and barked: You. Must. Love. Me. Jones was jealous, used to having Ramona all to himself, and proceeded to hump her. She shook him off, besotted.

Cat poop consumed: no

I’ve taken up swimming lately and while it’s not wreaking the kind of damage on my hair that I had expected, it’s a dogless form of exercise, which engenders some internal conflict, especially since there is very little to distract oneself from oneself while doing laps. It also involves a good deal of gear planning, what with all the bits one needs: swim costume, goggles, ear plugs, rubber hat, towel, entrance fee, buy-10-get-one-free punch card, satchel, car keys. Walking the dog requires a leash and a poop bag (if one is a good citizen), so simple in comparison. Okay, and comfortable shoes and maybe a podcast once in a while. There is lots to look at and we all get exercise together. And there are no bossy signs that euphemistically demand that participants have clean buttholes before diving in. 

Cat poop consumed: no

After too many dogless days in the wilds of the Redwood Empire, even this too-familiar route feels good. And there’s lots going on in the neighborhood. Cherries are getting ripe. Shasta daisies are blooming. California poppies are looking a little shaggy. Downtown, no surprise, the ill-fated Maca Baca is already long-closed, but a new taqueria has opened next to Jim’s Landing. Dancers A La Carte (new & used dance wear and erotic housecleaning) is having a sidewalk sale. And a new antiquey junk store has staked a claim a few doors down. The inexorable turn of the seasons seems somehow linked with the entrepreneurial tide.

Cat poop consumed: yes

It’s lucky we looped back down the D St. sidewalk because there was a rogue raspberry bush sprouting freshies, of which I enjoyed three and the dogs had one apiece. The fertile Willamette Valley is a place where free food can be had like this. At least, I assumed so. This particular bounty was growing out of a triangle of dried foxtails on the street side of a backyard fence. But as we walked toward home I wondered if perhaps the raspberries were part of someone’s edible landscape, albeit pretty neglected. And if I do ever plant that pear tree in my front yard wouldn’t I grouse if dogwalkers foraged my produce? I was reminded of my grandparents, who walked a mile every day to the McDonald’s in their suburban L.A. neighborhood for exercise and the fellowship of other early morning walkers who gathered there. The one time I got up at 5:30 to join them, Pop pointed out a particular bit of grass that had a trail across the corner where people made a tiny shortcut to the sidewalk on the other side. “See?” he said. “Other people have worn that away. But we never walk there,” and he led Gram and me the extra few steps around it, careful to respect an already corrupted bit of personal property.

Cat poop consumed: no