Time to walk
The afternoon is wearing on when my dog Maisie walks into my office. She stands and looks at me as I sit at my desk writing. I keep typing. She keeps watching. Then she sighs and flops onto the ground, chin resting on her paws, eyes still on me. There’s something about Labrador eyes. ‘Okay, you’re right,’ I say, ‘It’s walk time.’ I push my chair back and stand up. Maisie springs to her feet, all wagging-tail glee, the doleful expression evaporated.
I slip into my trainers and clip on Maisie’s lead and we are off. She snuffles at the ground, trotting along beside me. At the off-lead park, she sits, her backside hovering centimetres above the ground, her body quivering with expectation. I unclip her lead and she is off, racing flat out to say hello to every dog friend she knows and to cautiously sniff the bums those she doesn’t. Her energy is boundless. She goes everywhere at full tilt. I see people cringe as she races towards them, expecting to be bowled over. I trust her. I know she will pull herself up or swerve to the side before she collides with anyone and that she won’t jump on anyone, but I empathise with the concern they feel as she runs towards them.
I wave hello to the neighbours and the regulars I know. Maisie has some special friends that we frequently see on our walks – Lily, another Golden Labrador whom she adores; Ozzie, a Kelpie the same age as Maisie (the two have been friends since they were small puppies); Zeba – a rangy boxer with the same play style as Maisie; Alfie, a little Jack Russell cross with more courage than his size warrants.
‘C’mon Maisie,’ I call, ‘This way.’ She races back to me, all jowly enthusiasm. I clip her back on the lead and we walk down the limestone path through the bush. She trots along at my heel, sniffing the ground as we go. I wonder what she can smell – the overnight passage of a possum or quenda or rat; the scent of a dog she knows; our own footsteps from when we passed by this way earlier today. Yes, this is our second walk for the day but anyone watching Maisie could be forgiven for thinking it was days since she had been out. She is always like this though, full of excitement at the prospect of a walk, regardless of how little time has elapsed since we last strode out. Her insatiable joy is one of the things I love most about her.
We get to the oval and I reach down and unclip Maisie’s lead again, this time without the usual ritual of making her sit. By this stage we have walked the edge off her exuberance and she runs off more sedately, still sniffing the ground as she does. Her nose pulls her up and she stops, drops a shoulder and rolls, squirming on her back. Duck poo, I suspect. Back on her feet, Maisie notices a dog chasing after a ball and she is off. She grabs the dog’s ball and runs, looking back to see if the dog is chasing her. This is her favourite game, to have a ball or stick or in her mouth and another dog chasing her. After a time, she will drop the object and, when the other dog picks it up, Maisie will chase the dog. Not all dogs understand this game. Some dogs seem to think the idea of a ball is that you race after it and take it back to your person, so they can throw it again. Maisie sees no sense in this. Some dogs get grumpy at her version of the ball game. She cowers away from their aggression, tail between her legs. Some owners get grumpy at Maisie’s version of the ball game. ‘Your dog has stolen our ball!’ they yell at me. ‘Maisie, leave it!’ I say, ‘Leave it!’ She drops the ball and the owner’s mood lifts. ‘Thanks,’ they call. I’m trying to train Maisie to take the balls back to the rightful owners. ‘Take it back,’ I say, pointing to the other person. I get mixed results. It's a work in progress. It would probably be better to teach her not to take the balls in the first place, but I’m reluctant to do so because she has so much fun when she finds a dog who likes her ball game.
Sometimes there is a dog we haven’t met before that she takes a shine to and we make a new friend. I stop and let her play. It usually means our walk takes longer, but that’s okay. I chat to the dogs’ people. We don’t always exchange names but we quickly learn each other’s dogs’ names. Our talk is all of our dogs or the weather but, as we and our dogs meet each other again and again over the months, slowly bits of our lives seep into these dog-centred conversations. A mention of a job or a trip or a family member. But mostly it’s about the dogs and their antics. It’s an easy companionship. No pressure, no expectations. Without the dogs, we would walk past each other with barely a glance. With the dogs, we stand in the sun or shade or wind or drizzle and chat. In this way, we build community, one dog walk at a time.
Thanks for reading,
Jill