February 2022: Of Life’s Little Non-Negotiables
My dog can tell time. It’s all my fault. When he was young, in those months of covid quarantine when the world was shut down, I found it agreeable with my schedule to slip into a routine of afternoon walks wherein we’d traipse down the road to explore and take care of, eh hem, business, as it were, and it didn’t take long before he figured out the tell-tale signs that we were headed out the door. I’d round up his leash and put on my walking shoes. Before I could lace up, he’d be dancing at the door, whining, ready to get this show rolling.
His delighted anticipation at realizing what was about to take place has, however, morphed into something like demanding obstinance. These days he knows what time it is without picking up on hints. Quite the opposite. It’s cold outside. There’s ice everywhere and the hazards of heading out in the dead of winter are many. But he doesn’t care. He divines the hour by some vestibular canine clockwork. Typically, I’m at my desk working, oftentimes video-conferencing with students and occasionally even holding a remote class, or I’m hard at work on a manuscript, deep in the zone of inspiration, but does he care?
He’ll start slowly, having a seat near my chair to stare at me. I have to be careful not to look him in the eye if I want to buy myself time. Avoiding eye contact is only one tactic though. I also can’t speak to him or pet him as this will trigger full body shakes that give way to plopping front paws into my lap and by then it’s too late. I can’t tell him the wind chill is ten below. I can’t tell him that he’ll freeze his tookus off. He knows what’s out there and Katie-bar-the-door if he doesn’t get it soon.
I’m not happy about it, but this is a monster of my own creation. I’d also be lying if I didn’t admit that in spite of the cold and wind and ice and snow, I enjoy our winter walks. Without Doc, I’d never venture out. With him, I see the world in a new way. Down in the hollers where the wind can’t reach, there’s a miraculous winter silence waiting to be discovered. It abides in the quiet pastures and frozen creeks where creatures tread at night and by day are burrowed in somewhere warm. I see evidence of their passing through as footprints snake over the snow-covered ground, creating a kind of mystical map. It’s quiet; everything is muted. There are the gentle browns of sleeping flora, a delicate blue sky, the glossy indigo of frozen creeks. Skeletal remains of the growing season peek through their snow blankets and in spite of the fact that it looks on first glance as if there’s no life anywhere, clues abound. Doc’s nose leads the way as he darts back and forth, ditch to ditch, thrusting his snoot into holes in the snow, hoping to find what, only he can tell.
Most days, we meet the school bus that stops at the neighbor’s house. When Doc hears it coming, he takes a seat at the roadside and waits. As the big yellow beast nears, he’ll crouch low, looking as if he’s going to pounce. I wave at the bus driver as she passes. She waves back. Once it rumbles by, Doc bounces back into action. Sometimes he’ll stand in the road and watch until she’s out of sight. What the bus driver doesn’t know is that he also watches her from the house on cold dark school mornings. He’ll stop what he’s doing to sit in the window and watch her flashing lights pass. I want to tell her his name is Doc and to ask hers. I want to tell her the joy he finds in her existence.
I get cold on walks. Some days I get really cold. My nose runs; fingers go numb even in gloves. But he seems impervious. Sheer, unadulterated joy must keep him warm. I’ll admit, our winter walks are shorter than in summer. Doc seems to understand. When we’ve trekked about a mile out, he’ll give me a look, different than the one he shot me while I was working at my desk. This one isn’t anxious or demanding. It’s more considerate than that. “Are you ready to head back?” I’ll ask, and before you can say Bob’s-your-uncle, he’ll do a one-eighty in the road, and stretch his leash the opposite direction, to retrace our steps and dance his way back home.