Good Dog

It's where bloggers write for 5 minutes . . . no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking (or at least not a lot). Click on the button above to read more thoughts on fill.

When dog walking is therapy. 

And our pace is set by things to smell.

The perpetual pleaser in me fills with the delight he has of sniffing every other bush.

Walk three feet. Sniff. Walk a couple more. Sniff.

And the happy dog makes me smile. 

The ever-present demand to do more, be more, ceases to exist. This is enough. I am.

The people we meet don't talk about the headlines, their troubles.

Our commonality is the four-legged creatures on these long leads. Breeds, mixes, rescue dogs. These are the limits of our conversation.

And my weary mind finds refuge in these simple boundaries.

A couple walks toward me slowly on the path. I step aside to let them by, shortening the lead. Not everyone likes big dogs.

Is he friendly.

I nod.

He looks like my Nola. She lived 14 years. Want to see a picture? Man I miss her. She was a good dog.

Enjoy your walk.

Walk. Sniff. Sniff. Walk.

A tall, thin elderly man with two dogs on leash, a yappy dachshund-looking-something or other and a fluffy black partner, approaches.

He's a Norwegian breed. They were bred to catch rats on the ships. So they had to be small. 


We walk. He sniffs. 

And I notice.

The blue tail of a skink darting under a bush safe from sniffing dogs. 

Lazy turtles plopping off a sunny log into the green pond.

Wavy reflections on the rippling water.

The breeze. 

And it feels like my Father stroking my hair.

Whispering, "Breathe deep. Rest."

Man's best friend. It's no wonder.