Lessons Learned in Walking With an Old Dog
Road filled with marvels,
With smells, traces, history…
Fascinating world!
My twenty-three pound bichon frise (he’s huge for the breed, not fat) directs our morning walks. Some days, it’s a quick jaunt to the mailbox, while other days we meander a loop toward the small beach or embark on the even longer walk past the elementary school to another, larger beach. He likes to mix it up, keep it fresh.
Closing in on 13 years old, he is fit, equally up for an adventure or a long, profound nap. Some days, his senses are sharp (open the door to the freezer and he’s at your side, anticipating ice cream) and other days he cannot locate the treat he watched you toss. His hearing is selective, depending on who’s calling and what they want from him.
It is a very rare day, however, when he is not ready for a walk. Be it a dozen yards or three miles, he shadows me as I tie on sneakers, toss his leash on the rug, and put on a jacket.
Over our years together, he has taught me well: we walk together, with one another. There is no “walking the dog” solely for his exercise, for taking care of his business, or having something to do while I talk on the phone. There are no electronics with us; we are together with one another for this special time. Walking with him has been essential for my development as a writer:
- He doesn’t always know what he wants or how far we’re going to go — days when he’s wavered, indecisive, looking home have also turned into epic marches into new neighborhoods and long, luxuriant explores. I’ve learned to let my stories flow, to let characters reveal shocking and yet completely logical back stories, to attempt new forms, and to appreciate whatever writing is accomplished (as long as the daily blog gets posted, I’m good).
- He is open to encounters. Smaller dogs and puppies baffle him, always have, even when he himself was a puppy. Larger dogs are for playing and challenge (even the ones that would just as soon eat him as sniff hello). Cats are for barking. For most people, he looks merry stuffed animal, a source of delight and cooing pleasure; children reach to pat the lively teddy, babies gurgle, and adults smile.
Twice in his life, he has flattened his back and growled at a person. Both times, his negative reaction was to average, normal people who smiled and seemed perfectly fine to me. He knew differently, knew more. I’ve learned to trust his judgment.
As a writer, I’ve learned to be friendly and also to honor boundaries for myself and the other. While I love to play with words, not everyone does; words come hard to many, prose even harder, forget about poetry. I also have opened up to different genres and art forms and found delights and “nice to have tried it once.” - Some days the long walks become grim marches toward the end. Offered the opportunity to sit for a moment or to be carried, he rallies. I’m rallying now with a stupendously ambitious, verging on ridiculous goal — no sitting or carrying needed. I’m going to do this.
However, there are times he breaks up the march with a luxuriant examination of a fallen branch or sticking his head into a hole to see if anyone is home. I’ve learned to pause with him, to admire searing clear light on stone walls, to watch hawks circling overhead, listen to the gulls crying over the beach. For my writing, that means breaks to sit outside and look at the day, to garden, to load my Kindle with incredible reads; it also means I take the entire day off from writing beyond the bare essentials of morning pages, 1,000 word essay, and blog. - His tail tells all. Down is disheartened, going through the motions, considering allowing the indignity of being carried for awhile. Mid-range is neutral, inching toward hoping we’re nearly home. Up and curved over his back is full-on joy, energized, alert, empowered. Over the years, I’ve learned to babble his tail up with encouragement and sweet talk. As a writer, I notice when I am tired, when the writing is coming hard and bad and I can’t stand it any longer — when it’s time to give it a rest so I don’t come to hate writing. Sometimes, I need a stretch or a drink of water; other days it’s time to stop.
- After miles of walking around beaches, he drinks a bowl of water, gobbles his treats, and settles in for a long nap. His snores are cherished reminders of a noisy muse and stalwart companion.
What I’ve learned from an old dog: They can learn new tricks — but they have to want to learn them and the tricks have to be worth their time. As he has gotten older, he has slowed down, but his joy in his loved ones, the pleasures of the bowl, and his favorite perch on the warm front step are deeper, more heartfelt. His priorities have become clearer, his life even more focused and simple.
The writer lesson from his winnowing down of what he pays attention to and enjoying more has been to do just that. I’ve dropped obligations that don’t serve my writing, simplified and streamlined — making relationships and commitments all the richer. A whole new world of incredible, dynamic, intelligent people has opened up to me, energizing and encouraging and inspiring me to set preposterous goals.
Because dogs seem to be so innocent of the realities of decline and death, so eager, so open, so grounded in the present and in their own bodies, it is presumed that they have no idea what’s coming next. How could they be so cheerful and upbeat if they knew that they were going to die soon? Then again, how could they not? Given the choice, how would you rather live, dour and defeated — or writing your heart out, delighting whatever the day brings in pages, books, essays, blogs, and words?
