Willamette River Path, Springene

Jones was looking pretty hot so I pulled over to let him get a drink from the river but he wasn’t interested. I splashed his head and chassis with some cool water to help with ventilation and we continued our bike-trot. The pod of three people at the Knickerbocker Bridge looked like folks who would offer unsolicited advice along the lines of You shouldn’t be riding a bike in your condition especially with a dog in tow. Sure enough, one of the guys says, Your dog looks thirsty. You should give him some water. Yeah, thanks, pal. And your pink friend looks like he could use some sunscreen.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Whilamut Natural Area, Springene

I’m like a wrestling coach trying to help my charge make weight before the big match by putting him through the paces of one last hardcore workout. Tomorrow is the annual vet appointment where we see if the deprivations of the weight loss program have made a difference. I think we’ll get good news and Jones will be able to wrestle in the appropriate midweight class instead of with the chubs, but a long bike ride-run couldn’t hurt. Jones did his usual freaky barking at my bike before we started but then he settled in to a focused, all-out run, too busy to smell anything, root around for cat poop, or menace other dogs on the path. The virtues of vigorous exercise. 

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

Through a drycold dusk we rode, my faithful companion galloping by my side. The sunset pulsed across the field, as if discovering new combinations of color to equal fire. Lo, the darkness settled into the trees and my headlight failed but still we rode. The flasher clipped to Jones’ harness strobed its carroty warning (conference swag courtesy of the Beavers), when suddenly a bicycle glowing with its own orange beacon emerged from the crepuscular dim. Cradling a 2-liter bottle of Fanta, our serendipitous companion hushed passed and was engulfed by the fugitive gloom. O to recognize kinship before it’s too late.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Rosa Parks Path, Springfield

Is this truly a bona fide job now–holding a pizza shaped like a guitar at a busy intersection? And are these sign-holding gigs reflected in employment statistics? What is the return on investment, i.e., how many people are inspired by the guitar-shaped pizza and decide to turn right at Q St. for a stop at Little Caesars? The guy doing it does not seem demoralized. This is the guy with the kinetic sculpture bike made to look like a jet plane. The sign is slung from his shoulder like an actual guitar and he keeps up a steady rocking as the inexorable traffic flows by. My impulse is to say that this work is undignified, all the more so because it is so public. But maybe I’ve read too much Hemingway lately, because when we passed him on our way back down the path, I thought that perhaps whatever dignity we bring to a task endows it with honor in defiance of pathos.  Isn’t it pretty to think so?

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Whilamut Natural Area, Springene

There are things I say aloud to Jones that are, in truth, for the benefit of people who are hanging around, people who have a larger vocabulary than walk, hungry, and chewy thing. I say them to Jones as if he can understand, but really they are for the people who might take issue with our collective behavior at that moment. These include dude, skateboarding is not a crime, and I guess we do need a bike light, little dog, and say there, you do not own the sidewalk/dog park/couch. Also you know better than to steal toys and sorry pal, you just lost privileges. It’s a neighborly way of acknowledging how I fall short of the glory of excellent dog management, while not actually requiring me to do anything different.

 

Whilamut Natural Area, Springene

I’ve been calling it “Alton Baker Park, Eugene” when we go down the bike path by the river under the interstate to the big field, but really it’s a bioregion with its own name separate from these arbitrary and imaginary lines that divide city from city.  And I’ve coined my own combo name for this hybrid zone, so there. A poet in the schools who graced my young adulthood said that she visited the Owens Valley in October for the color yellow. Having an outsider point out the ubiquitous poplars, cottonwoods and rabbit brush at first made me wonder are you kidding? and then I noticed them for the first time, baroque and extravagantly gold. Since then my vision has sharpened, particularly in this lush patch of woodland and field: what else surrounds me that I might be missing?

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Autzen Dog Park via River Path, Eugene

Oftentimes the dog walk is simply a utilitarian exercise in tiring him out as much as possible. Toward that end, I hitched up Jones to his purple harness, climbed onto my Cape Cod Roadmaster, and ran him down the bike path to the DP Lounge. In these troubled times, there are still many things to be grateful for, and near the top of my list is the fact that a spacious and lovely dog park is a mere three miles from my house. A short 15-minute bike ride. He goes a little nuts with the bike; he barks at it when we first start, then he settles into a focused sprint that screens out all his usual distractions: the delicious smell of cat poop, boys on skateboards, his fear of the dog that lives down the street. I am also grateful when my guy is not the most annoying dog at the dog park. Thanks, Tucker the beagle! But if I am ever on a sinking ship and need someone to sound the alarm to get help from miles away, I’ll know who to ask.

Cat poop consumed: no