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A morning ritual

Today’s accompanying tune: “Let it Happen” by Tame Impala

My post-Thanksgiving Friday morning could best be described as leisurely. I ambled around the house, wiped down the counters I’d missed the night before, brewed a cup of coffee, and dug into the leftover pumpkin pie. I switched on the Christmas tree lights, refolded a blanket or two, and knocked out my list of word games. I like best a slow, purposeful morning. One full of easy movement, soft light, and warmth. Too many years of launching myself out of bed and onto the computer, signing in for work before the sun had truly risen, has given me a newfound appreciation for a slow morning that is often hard to resist.

The dogs and I circled the yard — once, twice, three times — as the sun began to crest the craggy mountains to our west, painting the brush of clouds a glowing orange against the faded denim sky. What a shame it is, I think, that dogs cannot see the same color spectrum as humans. If they could, they’d never come inside.

We settled into the couch, waiting for the rest of the house to wake from their feast-induced comas. Oliver settled, catlike, onto the back couch cushion with his nest of plush blankets. Allie claimed the chaise, filling most of the lounger with her fully expanded limbs. They rouse at every creak, waiting for the others to arrive and the day to begin. Because only then do we get to go on our w-a-l-k.

The walks are a holdover from Oliver’s past life — our past lives — in a big city where we rarely had access to a yard. Multiple times a day, we’d leash him up and start our route — to the park, around the park, up the hill, to the corner store with the good treats, to that one tree he’d claimed out front if we were in a hurry. We’d walk in the morning, around lunch, in the early evening, before bed. We covered hundreds of miles on foot, taking in the scents and scenes of the day, watching it unfold from the pavement. Trees in bloom, trees fully dressed in leaves, trees freshly trimmed by city workers, holes in the ground where the trees used to be. Has that car really been parked there for three weeks? When did the owners decide to paint that house? A new plant appeared in the window of the garden apartment just around the corner. A new dog moved in a few houses down and shared Oliver’s proclivity for claiming nearly every surface near the sidewalk. That walk lasted extra long.

Now, there are no sidewalks. We wander the roads of the neighborhood, holding close to a schedule he and I share, while sticking firming to the sides of the road to avoid the tank-like trucks speeding to work (me) and to stay within smelling distance of each home’s landscaping (him). We stop at the fire hydrant, we linger at the juniper bush. We avoid the foxtails and the cacti, having become intimately familiar with the best way to remove cholla barbs from soft pads to know exactly how close we can get without risking it again. We don’t pee on mailboxes — out of an unspoken and unverified sense of respect — and we saunter past yards whose owners have been less-than-hospitable on walks past. We investigate the rocks, the leaves, the railroad ties made into berms. We wave to people, to dogs, to the cactus wren that yells at us each morning. We listen to the beating of the ravens’ wings, low overhead, as they begin their rounds. On trash day, we take our time. The day after Halloween, we hustle throw, avoiding the toxic landmines scattering the ground, the only evidence of the revelry from the night before. I watch the mountains to the west glow the most vibrant pink I’ve ever seen and curse, yet again, dogs’ limited vision. Though I know the scentscape in which he lives is just as vibrant, just as enrapturing, just as much a reason for him to rouse me from sleep with the sole intention to go on a w-a-l-k.

We are down to a single walk a day; though Oliver would happily oblige more, his arthritis doesn’t quite allow for the extra exertion. Allie is exceptionally content with her yard — she’s never known city life, the life of schedules and smells and people and sounds. She tears up the dirt as she launches into the air to catch her ball, she digs up the long-ago buried cat poop, she sniffs all the corners. Her life, perfectly enough, contained in the bounds of the cedar fence. Until we decided it was time to bring her along. To broaden her horizons and, hopefully, help counteract her leash reactivity. We ply her with treats to keep her attention when a car whizzes by, a dog barks, an oblivious dog owner walks unnervingly close with an unleashed dog. We sit, we wait, we look at each other. We distract, we lay down, we redirect. She lingers at the juniper bush, sniffing precisely where Oliver had stuck his nose moments before. Her tense body relaxes, her muscles losing their visible definition under her coat as her nose gets to work. She sniffs the pavement, she sniffs the bushes. She looks to her left — yesterday a dog barked from that yard and she had a meltdown. There is no dog there that Friday morning after Thanksgiving. She relaxed. We all did.

Nothing about walking with a reactive dog is slow or calm. There is no peace, no meditative quality. There is only vigilance, awareness, mental planning akin to stringing up red yarn on a wall. Our first few walks, Allie came back dripping in drool from the exertion and stimulation. She refused to sniff at all. She didn’t know where we were going or why we were out there. She wanted to walk as a pack and pulled aggressively to do so. But each morning, she asks to go again. She pulls less, she listens more. She sits preemptively each time we slow to a halt. Best of all, she sniffs.

By the time we hit the railroad ties — the unofficial end of our route — she’d successfully endured a car, a dog, and a driveway full of people. Oliver had lingered, unbothered by the appearance of the treat bag he usually cannot take his nose off of. She hesitated at the start of the driveway, waiting for Oliver to catch up. She looked to her left, down the street towards the pink mountains. She wanted to keep going. She’d gained enough confidence to go an extra house, an extra block. Another day, another improvement.

Our morning routine is still slow, still warm, still intentional. Still a way of watching the Earth turn on its axis each day, watching leaves collect on the side of the road, listening for migrating birds, staying aware of foxtails. That Friday after Thanksgiving, though, I realized it was also full of gratitude. Full of gratitude for learning, for progress, for the addition of small inconveniences and stresses that make someone else’s life orders of magnitude better. For her expanding horizons, her skyrocketing confidence. For transformation, for healing. For progress so small it’s hard to see day-to-day, only revealing itself the farther you zoom out. For the ability to share the world with such a brave lady. To make both of the dogs’ days, every day, with the smallest of concessions. I’d never have it any other way.

Here’s to being brave and being kind.

- Megan