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

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

What’s this scattered on the grass next to the sidewalk? A credit card? Driver’s license? Social security card? Regal Theaters Rewards card? The crime fighting team at Walking the Dog sprang into action. We collected the clues, assessed their importance (high) and the potential threat of identity theft to their owner (high). We also performed a personal moral scan to determine the likelihood of misusing the bits to our own nefarious purposes (low, due to current reading material, namely Louisa May Alcott’s Little Men). Jones wondered why we were stopping when there was no cat poop in the vicinity, but a thorough forensic check of the crime scene was in order. I stuffed it all into the pocket of my vest and continued the walk, crafting a heroic letter to the victim.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

These Tuesday mornings are a gift from the evening reference desk shift gods. So much time to drink tea and read that article from the Sunday Times about Justice Souter and take the dog on the hour-long loop by the river and learn how to do a yarn over for the baby booties I’m trying to knit while watching two episodes of the first season of Mary Tyler Moore and play tug of war with Jones and the squeaky bunny and then to pack a mid-afternoon lunch and still get to the bus on time.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

I do love the pearly diffused light here. So forgiving. I suppose it’s kind of gloomy if you compare it to the sparkle and glare of a scrubbed blue sky. But I’ve had enough of the Land of Little Rain and its ascetic charms. I like living in a place where the moss grows in a soft carpet right on the sidewalk, and ferns sprout out of the branches of trees. I like the abundance of herons in the waterways. I like the thick aroma of the bakery across the river, and the way the packs of striding oldsters smile at me on their morning constitutionals. I like wearing a knit hat. I like the trip-trap of my little billy goat gruff of a dog as every day we become more and more firmly a fixture in this little bit of bioregion.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

The poor dogs always know when Something’s Going to Happen. Despite my reassurances that they get to come too and making a big show of filling a bag with their dog stuff, they mope around while I pack and hover underfoot as if to ensure that I won’t forget them. And Jones has been working a little anxiety wound on his leg for the last two weeks. There have been a lot of changes lately, but still it seems like an adolescent cutting herself as a way to express her pain. Since Jones is conveniently a dog, I can probably avoid the psychologist and just get some cream. In any case, a long walk before a long drive seems a good antidote for nerves in dogs.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

Now this is a normal February morning in the Willamette Valley. Light rain, 40 some degrees, low sky. A person can be positively enthusiastic about running on mornings like this, and find stores of energy and verve that lie hidden on other days. The dog takes some additional coaxing. Jones is never entirely comfortable when we go out and leave part of the pack behind. Ramona’s arthritic hips won’t hold up to this kind of running, and L. went off on an aesthetic imperative mission to the home improvement store. And Jones is fastidious about getting wet, so when we turned the corner and the whole river path stretched out before us in the glistening rain, he balked and turned back toward home. I used to coax and cajole and eventually give in when he did this. Not anymore. I’m the decider, pal.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path

According to the graffiti at the end of the Knickerbocker Bridge, Sharal has aides. Lucky Sharal, to have assistants to help her! But why publicize it? To warn off those who clamor to offer support? She’s already got plenty, thank you very much.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

To quote the immortal geniuses of Team America, what we need right now is a montage:

• Hauling Jones away from the flattened raspberry cakey pastry smear on the driveway next door, day after day until finally the rain melted it away.

• At the dog park, the horror of seeing that guy I dated once–literally–then weasled out in some of my worst form. How’s Jones, he asked, grasping. What do you say to that? Watching too much reality TV? Exploring study abroad opportunities? Frustrated as to why the economy has taken precedence in the news over the presidential dog search?

• A pork chop bone nuzzled out of the grass in Meadow Park.

• A weekend sleepover at Booty’s house, and O., himself foreshortened with a recent haircut, saying Jones looks smaller. Proof the weight loss program is working?

• The always-decorated house at 9th & C, sparkling with hearts for V-Day, draped in shamrocks by Feb. 17.

• Another unseasonably sparkling morning along the river, with sugar-frosted bark paths and a pair of morning walkers in breathless chat as we jogged past: Cute! What kind of dog is that?

Cat poop consumed: you betcha

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

If I wrote about eating lunch I’d describe the plates of sandwiches cut into quarters and held together with toothpicks, falling apart anyway with tofu and chopped raw vegetables, and the big ol’ catering cookies, and how everyone tore into their individual serving sizes of snack chips first thing, and how I really don’t understand why intelligent people will drink soda. And how the various diversity clubs from around campus, gathered for this lunch event, make me feel at once hopeful and even more tired. But I don’t write about lunch. I write about walking my dog, an activity that requires no toothpicks or unexpected testimonials about how important it is to have an administrator in the group. This morning it was dark. It was cold. It was heavenly.

Cat poop consumed: no

 

Willamette River Path, Springfield

What’s freaking me out is that everyone on NPR is called him President Obama as if it’s actually real. Carl Kassell can say it without even giggling, which I am unable to do. And then that photo on the front page of the New York Times with the two of them looking like a deodorant ad and suspiciously like an Photoshop hoax. Jones just wanted to go back to bed, but no, I said. We’re going to get out with the headlamp in the dark and run, my friend. These may be dark times. It may be cold. The road may be slippery. But we are firm in our vision and we do not fall. We warm up by the time we reach the bike path and we are no longer cold. A dog will smell the fence post and be inspired. We will go forth stronger to fulfill our special purpose with fresh spirit. Me, to get to the 8:30 database cancellation meeting on time, and Jones to provide homeland security duty from his perch on the green chair. 

Cat poop consumed: no