I Walk The Dog . . .

I Walk The Dog . . . I walk the dog. I haven’t walked a dog for over five years, but now I’m walking the dog again. I walk the dog. It’s not my dog. Her Majesty says the dog is a Scottish Terrier. I suspect that she has a bit of Rottweiler in her. Granted, she’s only six inches tall and weighs no more than a few pounds, but she has roots in the lucha libre – little wrestlers with an inscrutable will to maim. I walk the dog. I take no responsibility for ensuring that the dog actually does what she’s supposed to do on the walk. If the dog pees on the carpet 30 seconds after returning from the walk, that’s not my fault. I do my part. I stop on the grassy knoll for the requisite amount of time and then some. I wait patiently during the regular sniff-here-sniff-there routine. I even try to keep the dog from sniffing nasty things. I am not always successful in that area. I walk the dog. I don’t always watch the dog. I admit to being distracted sometimes, but I think that’s only fair. The dog gets distracted when it sees a cat walking arrogantly by. I get distracted when I see, say, the reincarnation of Mae West walking arrogantly by as well. Fair is fair. The dog doesn’t watch me, so why should I have to watch the dog. It is not in my nature to concentrate on much of anything anymore. You’ll call it senility. I call it being alive. I like the dog. I’m not so sure the feeling is mutual. When we first met, she bit my ear. I know, you’re wondering how she got anywhere near my ear. I must have been doing one of those cuddly, in-your-face greetings. On first impression, she looked harmless to me. Apparently, the dog had other plans. So now I have a second piercing in my left ear. It’s not quite what I wanted. I was thinking more along the lines of a tattoo for my next foray into self-bodily abuse. Since then, the dog and I have been working our way through a dysfunctional relationship. I might even call it abusive. She has issues with my red socks. She attacks them even as I walk about the house, snags her needlepoint teeth in my toes, and hangs on for dear life when I try to shake her off. I admit she has a great grip. I kick high and low, this way and that. She’s unshakable, unflappable. All of my socks are now Toeless in Tucson. I like the look, actually, but I’m not admitting that to the dog. She would probably take up darning. I walk the dog. She gets a fair dose of cardio-intensive exercise every day. And still the dog is fat. No one here will admit it, but she eats too much doggie junk food. Or maybe her metabolism has shut down. It’s hard to tell with obese dogs. I suspect she suffers from bad eating habits, one of which she may have picked up from me. You see, whenever I forage through the cupboards for a bit of chocolate, she appears out of nowhere, and bribes me into giving her a Milk Bone by emitting this low growl that really means, “Gimme a Milk Bone, or I start really barking, and someone will come and see that you’re stealing from the chocolate bar stash.” It’s a good gig for her. She gets her Milk Bone. Her Maj says that the dog really does love me, adores me even. I’ve heard that line before. What she's really saying is “Wouldn’t you like to walk the dog?”

Copyright © Kennedy James, 2007. All rights reserved. This post is the intellectual property of the author and his heirs and is not to be copied or reproduced in any form without the author's written consent. Please email for further information.