Walking slowly

Holli is slowing down. She pants on our walks and stops frequently to turn her head back, looking at where we've been. I feel that I am dragging her, because she is so slow. I want to unclip her leash, even though I'm not supposed to, when we get home. But I do. Twist & I take the front steps a bit faster and I let Holli, loose, follow as she can.

Today I wanted to take them all the way around the block. Up Mayfair to Washington Road, north on Washington, then west on Vernon and back down around Vernon to our house. Finally, it was the kind of lovely, almost-spring day that called for a long lazy walk. But Holli couldn't keep up. I grew frustrated, but realized that I needed to walk slowly, for her.  I am not built to do that, but I began to understand that when we three are out together, as much as I would like to be the absolute in-charge decisionmaker, pace-setter, I cannot be.

I hold the leashes, but the smells of the earth seduce the dogs and, in Holli's case, age governs her pace. So we are a single unit, stopping, starting, smelling, gazing. (Holli gazes behind, I gaze up at the skeletons of the bare trees and the gray shapes of singing birds). I need to remember this on weekday mornings, and schedule our walks accordingly, so that I can develop the patience to go at her pace and realize that, if we don't get home in time, there's always another bus I can take to work.

This is how my dogs teach me. I am present to their daily lives and witness to their emotions and moods. That, aside from the fact of ownership, makes me responsible for their well-being and happiness.

What they don't know, of course, is how much they have given to  me.