So I’m tugging on this dog of mine. “Come one. Come on!” I tell her. “It’s cold. You just sniffed that. You’ve sniffed it for like 15 minutes. You sniffed it yesterday. It’s the same spot. It hasn’t changed. It’s just pee. Come on!”
I do this all the time. Pull, pull, pull. Tug, tug, tug. She doesn’t seem to mind. Or notice. Or even care.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” her eyes seem to ask as she … Wo! Wait a minute. I gotta’ sniff this.
A walk for my dog is like a trip to the perfume counter. “Oh, this is nice. Very nice. Hints of corned beef hash and vinegar.”
I love walking my dog. But it’s like dragging concrete … that’s already been set in the ground.
And it must look ridiculous to strangers. This crazy man standing in the street saying things like, “Come on, you meathead! Let’s go! Let’s get there! Don’t you want to get there?”
I pull on the leash like I’m trying to rip a tree stump from the ground. The dog? An immovable object. Oblivious. Un-fazed. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
We move. Freely. Gracefully. Quickly. For 3 seconds. She finds another spot. “Wo, wo, wo! Can’t miss this one. I think it’s a little cat throw up!”
To be a dog.
I have to stop and explain things to her. In the nicest tone I can muster. I say, “Now listen here, Lily. You can’t stop at every single smell. We’ll never get there. You do understand “there,” right? Nod your head if you understand.”
People see this and they start dialing 911.
I know my dog is thinking: “But you CAN stop at every single smell. I just proved it!”
I just want to get there. My whole life I’ve wanted to get there. Vacations as a kid were never about where we were going. They were about getting in the car and knowing we were on the way. Where are we going? Who cares. As long as we’re on the way.
I’m always on the go. To some place I need to be. Even when there isn’t some place I need to be. I walk fast. With purpose. I need to get there. Soon. Now. Already.
But maybe my dog might is trying to teach me something. Lily doesn’t care about getting there. Why? Because everywhere is “there.”
That’s the luxury of being a dog. Nowhere to go, and all the time in the world to not get there.
So I’m taking to heart what my four-legged little Zen master is trying to teach me. I’m going to pull less, and focus on where I am, instead of where I’m going. Unless, of course, it’s cat vomit. Then we gotta’ move.