Walking in a Winter Wonderland

Winter arrived on Sunday and was gone by Tuesday, just the way I like it. Monday was particularly beautiful. Warm with fat snowflakes frosting tree branches like buttercream icing, and a low hanging sun casting maple syrup shadows across a blanket of white fleece. It was a day made for walking.

Shadow Riley

Riley and I chose Bell’s Lane for our Monday walk, a scenic single-lane road meandering through pastureland just minutes from historic downtown Staunton. It reminds me of our farm in Bath County but because it’s open to traffic, it’s not quite as fun for Riley. Real farm romps do not involve leashes.

Riley, Bell's Lane

Exciting as it was, mini-winter wasn’t the highlight of our week.  Last Thursday marked the arrival of Riley’s celebrity photographer and biggest fan, Mim Adkins. Mim is a fine art and lifestyle photographer from Boston, Massachusetts. Her technical skills are amazing, but the way she soulfully connects with her subjects elevates her work from beautiful to magical. She’s an artist, and the only person for whom Riley will smile for the camera (or at least look at it). 

Mim also happens to be my college roommate and all that shared history makes for a rollicking good time. She took many, many fantastic photos, which I plan to dole out slowly and thoughtfully (hey, we have a year of walking to do!). Meanwhile, you can get more Art of Life by clicking the tab at the top of the page.

It was a fun, very dog-centric week. Riley even caught a frog, an unprecedented act of underwater bravery that deserves more than a tossed off comment at the bottom of the page. Sadly, there is no still shot or video so it will take a little time to come up with a creative way to honor his spectacular achievement. I'll keep you posted.

Did I Mention I'm Allergic?

This morning, I woke up and couldn’t breathe. Of course, most mornings I wake up and can’t breathe but today I was truly, miserably over-the-top congested. The problem? I’m allergic to dogs.

Whatever. I’m allergic to a lot of things so what difference does it make, right?

Eh…wrong. It actually makes a lot of difference. One of the best ways to control allergy symptoms is to keep your home free of triggers but let’s be honest, that’s never gonna happen. My allergist is clutching his heart right now so I should probably include the following disclaimer: The choices herein are the lunatic choices of a fanatical dog lover and are not a substitute for sound medical advice. Please seek medical advice from a qualified healthcare professional. I did. I just don’t follow it. In fact, I allow my dog to sleep in my bedroom. Again, listen to your doctors, people! I’m clearly not of sound mind.

I found out about the dog thing eight years ago when I was referred to an allergist after having a reaction to raw oysters (I was told never to eat them again and for the record, I’m still bitter). He ordered a full battery of scratch tests, a procedure where extracts from potential allergens are placed on the skin which is then pricked to allow the extracts to enter the epidermis. The whole thing percolates for about 15 minutes and the physician returns to observe the results.

“Oh, hmmm. You didn’t react to cats as I expected but it does appear you’re allergic to dogs.”

The shock upon hearing this announcement caused a powerful, involuntary limbic response. That is, I began laughing hysterically.

“I take it you have a dog?”

“Yes.”

“And I gather you’re unwilling to give him up but someday, when he’s no longer with you, it’s something to think about.”

“Oh, I’ll think about it, alright! I’ll think about how many dogs I should get!” A staring contest ensued which I won, so the allergist moved on to my issues with dust and seafood.

My dog died four years ago of osteosarcoma, and I lived dander-free for six months before adopting Riley who sheds hair like an actress sheds husbands and suffers from an itchy, flaky skin condition that has yet to be adequately diagnosed. Perhaps he’s allergic to me.

Walking helps. I sneeze, he scratches, and we head out into the crisp, winter air and breathe each other in.

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

“I failed to make the chess team because of my height.” –Woody Allen

I often call Riley the Woody Allen of dogs. He’s twitchy and nervous, and life’s big questions keep him in a state of perpetual anxiety: Are you leaving? Is it safe? Can I eat it? Honestly, if Riley had hands, he would wring them.

Inside the house, Riley’s concerns are largely confined to noise patrol. If he's awake and no one is leaving or worse yet, using the oven, he's trotting from room to room, head cocked to the side, listening intently. Possibly, he’s receiving messages from the mother ship and the reception is spotty.

Outside, however, Riley shifts it into high alert. Anything unfamiliar is a death trap until proven otherwise. Cracks in the sidewalk, manhole covers and storm drains are avoided like open portals to hell. Last week, husband and I were walking Riley downtown when he was introduced to a textured curb ramp designed to alert the visually impaired to changes in grade and other potential hazards. The humans among us walked right over it but Riley was airborne. He launched himself sideways into the street, eyes pinballing wildly in their sockets.

"Seriously?" said husband. He walked on, shaking his head and laughing, "He is such a freak." Pulling Riley to safety, I quickly covered his velvety, teddy bear ears. “Don’t talk about him like he’s not here!”

Okay, so husband's right; Riley is a little freaky. But the path to balance is long and winding, and if we're paying attention, the universe will occasionally open a window onto someone else’s freak show, just to let us know we’re not alone.

My cosmic window opened while I was stuck at the mother of all red lights. I kid you not, people grow old waiting for this light to change, and I was seriously considering a nap or having a pizza delivered when I settled for watching a young pit bull owner attempt to walk his bouncing, muscle-ball of a puppy down the street. It wasn't going well. The guy couldn’t take a step without the little dog leaping and pirouetting excitedly into the air. He could, however, take a hint. Shortening the leash, he broke into a slow run and the pup joyfully bounded forward, slobber flying this way and that. It wasn’t pretty but it was progress, and they jogged along successfully until the owner turned right onto a section of sidewalk bridging a large drainage ditch.

Inside my car, the clouds parted, and a little message fluttered down from on high. It said, “Wait for it…”.

Outside my car, the owner crossed the bridge, but the pit bull FREAKED. Claws scrabbling furiously on the concrete, he threw it into reverse and managed to wrap his leash around a telephone pole before freezing in a low crouch, eyes rolling back exorcist-like in his head.

Ah, there it is. I know that look well. Those two were in my house now. Welcome, friends. May the force be with you.

Visibly embarrassed, the owner untangled the leash and tugged. The bully wouldn’t budge. He tugged again but the dog was going nowhere. Defeated, the poor guy pushed back the hood of his sweatshirt, hitched up his pants and trudged over to where the terrified pit bull lay. He lifted the little dog gently, cradled him in his arms, and carried him across the ditch, whispering words of comfort in his furry, flattened ears. It was fabulous.

The light turned green and as I pulled away, I rolled down the window and offered a little wave-to the universe and to my fellow freak-dog lover, my comrade, my brother-in-arms. As for his pup? Let your freak flag fly, little pit bull. We all have issues.

Make A Little Noise

“I’m starting a blog.”

I announced this to the back of husband’s head as he sat at the kitchen counter, downloading music onto the computer.

“Really?” He turned, looking a little alarmed over the top of his reading glasses.

“About what?”

“About walking the dog.”

He raised an eyebrow then turned his attention back to the computer screen.

“Mmm. I guess someone will be interested in that.”

Okay, so his response lacked a certain enthusiasm for my chosen topic but he did have a point. There’s a lot of noise out there, a lot of cyber-yammering going on. Do I have something meaningful to add to the cacophony, a purpose, a passion, valuable information to share? Not really. I do have a dog. One that desperately needs walking.

The idea to blog about it came to me one morning as I was engaged in every writer’s favorite time suck: surfing the web. I was clicking and skimming, clicking and skimming when I stumbled upon an article about the importance of dog walking. The gist of it was, to be fulfilled, dogs need to walk. It’s not just about doing their business; walking stirs something in them on a cellular level. It whispers to their inner wolf. It stimulates and challenges them, physically and mentally.  And I believe that. I just don’t do it consistently, at least not in winter. It’s cold out! And if it’s windy? Forget about it. Cold, windy and rainy? If I could get away with it, I’d eat the paint off the walls before I’d go out for a loaf of bread in bad weather. I’m surely not walking the dog. Needless to say, I’m a huge disappointment to my beloved Riley, who pays the price for my weather-driven approach to the daily-ish walk. I need inspiration, a cosmic intervention, a laying on of paws for this chronic wimpiness thing. I need to walk my dog. 

“Just do it!” barked the contributing veterinarian. “Start a blog about it: A Year of Walking The Dog. I’d read it.” Would you really?

Okay then, challenge accepted! Let’s do this.

As far as the bigger picture, my contribution to the global conversation, it would be great if someday, I accidentally bring someone’s attention to animal rescue, encourage responsible pet ownership, or inspire others to take up the challenge, to get out there and walk their dogs. But is that what I aim to accomplish here? Not really. We’re just walking, having some fun, and making a little noise.