I woke this morning to a sudden swat of a paw across my face. I was in the beginning of a seduction dream (nice) with a patient of mine (creepy). I won’t ever know if I was to succumb to such a lurid taboo as the paw-swat woke me right up. I opened one eye to find Harper over me looking worried-excited, as if it was last call to board a plane. I know that look: time to get up and go for a walk-walk-walk. I put on my trousers, Harper did her pandiculations, and off we go.
After seven years more or less doing the routes you would think it would lose some luster, but we leave home like a greyhound out of the gate. She can’t wait to get to the bushes for her sniffs. Do they elicit euphoria? Do they tell her the neighborhood news? Whatever the reasons she loves to nose about the shrubberies.
It is getting cooler; our peripatetic morning ritual becomes more pleasant – and more in the dark. Harper doesn’t mind the dark. The one thing she does mind is water. Princess Pooch will walk a wide arc around running water or a puddle so as not to get her paws wet.
Don’t tell Someone but we are getting sloppy in our steps. We should be stopping at every corner for her to sit before crossing the street. In my desire to keep going we plow forward. I need to reverse this lest he join us some morning and be aghast how slattern are our habits.
After the walk, Harper wants a treat. We think she’s gained some unnecessary weight so the doggie-meaty-yummie-stix have been halved. Usually she takes it and runs off to eat it in the living room. Now she swallows the tidbit in a gulp and sits there looking for more. I daresay she sulks some when no more is forthcoming.
Ah well. The disappointment sure hasn’t put a dent in her enthusiasm for morning walks.