Ed.— Archived from the Sunday, Nov. 17, print edition.
VIRGINIA BEACH — I used to be a runner. I’d get up at dawn every morning, put on my sneakers and head out into the darkness. Before the end of my travels, I’d circle back to the house, put my dog on the leash and take her for the last run around the block. I knew our time with a dog was getting short when she lagged behind me.
Still, no matter how old she got, each dog I had would wait at the fence for me to leash her up and take her on our way together. I promised the last dog that ran with me that I wouldn’t drag the next dog along for a run if she seemed to be in pain – no matter how much she wanted to go. That’s why I walk the dog of this decade, and I can’t imagine an evening walk any other way.
My dog, Savanna, is a standard poodle, a former breeding female in a friend’s small golden doodle business. Savanna was well into her sixth year when she came into my life almost seven years ago. Even then, she was what some might call a senior dog, though that was not just because of her age.
Savanna carefully measured her time and attention. She wasn’t interested in frivolity, mindless play or trifling human behaviors. She had lived most of her life in a kennel with other dogs. She rarely spent time in a house with people around her, and she had not gone on many walks.
Savanna learned our habits and expectations within days but was suspicious of her new living arrangements. She could barely tolerate a hug —her body stiff and resistant as my youngest son’s arms went around her. She was uncomfortable around the men in the house, and loud noises made her jump. She kept to herself despite our attempts to engage her. I thought it would be a long time before she and I connected.
A few weeks after we adopted Savanna, the spring weather broke and there was light after dinner for the first time in months. I laced my sneakers, put the leash on Savanna and pulled her out the door for a walk in the warm evening air. It didn’t take long before she was prancing beside me, her eyes gleaming with curiosity, her tail wagging, her body loose and graceful.
Our evening walks grew from a few blocks to a few miles at a time over the next five years. Savanna lost the extra pounds she came to us with, and her demeanor went from hesitant and suspicious to eager and inviting.
I am grateful for her quiet constancy as we make our way around the neighborhood each night. I find that walking with the dog provides a kind of necessary company to deep introspection and affords me the quiet I long for throughout my busy days. Sometimes, she will stop to scent another dog or get attention from a passerby. More often, we keep a silent, steady pace forward, intent on our travel, amazed by the sunset, lulled by our footfalls marking the quick passage of time.
Lately, Savanna has slowed down. There was a time when she walked the leash taut before me. Now, she lets it hang slack beside us as we make our way along the waterside path. She will stop for no other reason than to let the breeze blow across her face for a moment before moving on.
There was a time I’d hurry her on her way, despite her desire for a break. Standing still for a moment seems like a good idea now – close my eyes, feel the breeze, listen to the gulls call across the water.
I figure, why not? It’s the dog’s walk, after all.
The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.
© 2024 Pungo Publishing Co., LLC
