writing prompt: 10-minute stroll

Dudley bolts out the door, as always, in full defiance of my authority and anything Cesar Millan may think. He barely pauses to look before bounding down the first three steps, even though he steadfastly refuses to go down stairs inside the house. Into the grass for a quick sniff n’ pee, then off again to street level. The crabgrass and other various weeds that make up the greater part of my lawn (I use the word reluctantly) get a copious amount of testosterone-induced canine fertilizer; the rocks in front of the hydrangeas are a popular spot. After a few minutes of frantic circling and close inspection of the yard, we can proceed.

The walk to the corner of the street is often inelegant, with Dudley pulling left and right. But by the time we reach 20th Avenue, exactly one house over from mine, he settles down into a civilized walk by my side. I try to keep myself between him and the road traffic, but sometimes he gets confused; other times he just gets distracted by an appealing smell. On the other hand, he’s really good at not going around the wrong side of telephone poles and the like, and at circling me and tripping me up in the leash. He’s by no means perfect, but then, neither am I.

Street corners are notorious message boards for neighbourhood dogs, and I do allow him some leeway to partake in communication activities, but not too much. We turn right on Blvd. du Lac, down to Lakebreeze. That particular corner is always the height of sniffing interest. I wonder whether there a bitch in heat nearby; other times, I catch myself wondering whether he smells his mom. I know, I know, he wouldn’t recognize her as such – but I would. Around the curve we go, passing the house where my lost cat was found when I was seven. The house has undergone so many renovations since, it’s almost unrecognizable; I doubt it’s the same owners, but I still silently send my gratitude to the lady who called on that fateful day in 1980. Losing Lita was one of the hardest events of my adult life. Would it have been simpler back then if Dixie had never been found after wandering off?

We cross Sunnyside and pass the house of a lady who also owns pugs. Once upon a time, we met on the corner as I was walking Dave; we talked about dogs until Dave got bored and peed on my foot. Once in a while, we’ll duck in to the little lot dressed up as a park and go to the water’s edge. Dudley has learned that dead fish that wash ashore are not for him to stick his nose in. Does he enjoy the sensation of sand between his toes as much as I do? I so often wish we spoke the same language, to share what goes on behind those big brown eyes. I feel the love, that much is clear, as are the messages he conveys with his tail, his mouth and his ears. But they are but pictograms: I long to understand the subtleties of his experience.

Lakebreeze ends right across the street from the house where my best friend lived when I was a child. Her parents still live there, and I sometimes see her brothers too. We turn back towards home. This part of the walk is contained by a sidewalk and Dudley’s growing fatigue, so it’s fairly straight and narrow, except for the crab-apple tree that provides new olfactory sensations in late summer. The sidewalk ends at 18th Avenue. Just beyond, there are a number of cracks along the edge of the pavement that radiate out into the street. Last year, a city worker spray painted circles around the areas to be repaired; the paint has faded, and still the cracks endure. One day, the perfect profile of a pug appeared to me in these cracks. I told Pat about it, and he thought I was crazy. I even took a picture; as soon as I get my camera, I will try to take a picture of Dudley in the same pose (it may be difficult to convince him to look away, though.)

We round the corner of 20th Avenue and he sniffs urgently at all the same places as when we first walked by here in the other direction. Soon, we’re turning onto our street, and he recognizes home; all civilization once again escapes him as he storms up the stairs. His brothers and father are most often barking at the window by this time. Walking them all together is impossible. Walking certain combinations works well, but sometimes, it’s nice to have some one-on-one time. No competing for dominance or for mom’s attention. Back in the house, off comes the leash, and Dudley heads straight to the water bowl for a drink before settling down for a well-deserved nap.

(827)