Walking the Dog

As the days get shorter and the wife gets more pregnant, I’ll be slowly taking over the job of the long morning walk. Our front steps get treacherous with ice, and Walter can pull like a mule when he’s excited. Rather than risk a nasty spill, and given that she’s been sleeping about 3 hours each night for my 8, I’m more than happy to take on what has traditionally been her job.

When I walk him, we have to leave earlier, and he only gets about 45 minutes. As much fun as it can be, I still need to get to work. When Corrie walks him they leave a bit later, and she can give him the good hour and a half he needs. His best friends tend to be out later also, so when he’s stuck with me, we see fewer dogs.

Like most obligations, the challenge is one of motivation, particularly in the winter. I figure on average, I’ve got about ten minutes to eat a bagel, drink some coffee, read one and a half articles in the Times, before he NEEDS to go. When the wind is blowing, or we get one of our ‘Nor’easters’, it takes some effort to bundle up and head out

Half way to the park he realizes that his best pal Cooper is still asleep. When they get together on the weekends he gets a good hour of bloody wrestling. That’s right, I said bloody. Cute as he is, there’s a fighter in that 50 lb frame that wants nothing more than to chew Coopers face and legs. They have on occasion come away with pierced ears, and cool facial scars, but it’s all in good fun. There are few dogs that like to play rough, but when they get together, you just know he’s going to sleep the rest of the day afterwards.

So we finally get to the park to see nobody else around. The realization dawns, as if for the first time each morning, that he should have waited another half hour at home.

Making the best of a dull situation, he hunts for old chicken bones and unfamiliar poo. Cheeks are starting to lose feeling at this point, but it isn’t too cold out. The occasional bird, but otherwise completely silent, save for the crunch of snow under six feet (two big, four small).

Until we get to the big field that is, where I like to open it up and see what he can do. There’s something unique in watching a two foot dog tear across a soccer field at top speed, ears spinning in tandem.
So we make our way back to the path, and run into two of the rare early crowd, Mila and Max. Fun dogs both, but not the kind that chews, so they settle into a game of name that smell, while the owners trudge behind.

Complaining about the weather in Boston is an art in itself, one whose nuances can be missed too easily. You have to build up to it as the season grinds you down. Come out too hard too early and people think you weak. Too stoic and you sound like a liar. I’m learning a certain sparse beauty in complaining about snow and wind. I’m sure you’ll hear much more of it in the months to come.
On a usual walk, we head into the Wilderness, the section of Franklin Park specifically designed by Olmstead to replicate the landscape of downtown Boston before it was built up. Time was short though, so we had to head back early.

He had trouble with the ice on the way back, but you have to admire the total lack of self-consciousness. He can wipe out three times without slowing down, but that might have some relationship to how little distance he has to fall.

So we make it back home, late again, with little time to shower, shave, and head out. The house is warm enough to steam my glasses when we get back inside, and the water could be cracking my face off the skull for all I can feel of it.

Sure it’s a pain sometimes, but sure can be beautiful out there before the rest of the City wakes up.