Two dogs technically don’t comprise a collection, or – to be more precise – a pack, but when I head out the door with Mona and Bowie for their daily walk, it has that feel. There’s the initial search for harnesses; Bowie’s habit of plucking them from the hall basket and depositing them who-knows-where has me combing several rooms for the first few minutes; it’s fortunate that they’re fluorescent (the harnesses, not the dogs.) Next is the floor routine in order to attach a split leash. Mona, older dog, always gets clipped first. Despite her eagerness, she will sit patiently while I root around in her mass of fluff for the ring on her collar. Bowie is meanwhile performing back flips, alternating them with valiant efforts to free Mona from her harness. Bowie’s turn. He dutifully sits on command, gives me one-and-a-half seconds to find his collar ring and properly affix him to the second lead, and then charges to the door. . . usually still “unaffixed”. With nose pressed to the glass storm door, he allows himself to be tethered to his best pal. (Mona’s joy is tempered as she is reminded once again how times have changed; she muses, not too long ago Mommy loved just me, and took just me for long, uncomplicated walks, and if I wanted to stop and sniff something interesting, I could do that. . . in an uncomplicated way.)
Before we leave the house and stutter-step our way down three short flights of steps (and not in a way that suggests that I’m striving to warm up my core), my pockets bulge with poop bags, treats, tissues, house key (with an attached sharp-eared kitty charm-slash-personal-protection-weapon that reassures me that I’m well-armed should another dog attack my pups or a psychopath ambush me), and cell-phone (to track my steps, as well as comply with my daughters’ demands that I be reachable.) Anyone with small children understands the complexity of “leaving the house”; whenever I leave the house with these two small dogs it invariably calls to mind those early days with Megan and Lindsey. Back then, just as excited about the possibilities that “leaving the house” implied, my girls – especially Lindsey – would bounce around and wriggle with delight, but they would never spontaneously (at the very moment when one’s foot was reaching tentatively for the next step), jerk on their leash and catapult you into the bushes next to the front steps.
The split leash is in some ways ingenious, but also cruel. If you’re unfamiliar, it is a “V” attachment for the lower end of a single leash, converting it into a double leash. I had tried the two separate leashes and found that entanglement was a recurrent problem. I wearied of the constant exertions to creatively and gracefully extricate myself once encased. (There was no one better way to do it, whether I twirled in a 360-degree circle, or sumo-stepped my way over this leash first, only to find that I’d literally stepped into another trap.) One day on a section of rail trail in the South End of Newburyport, I ran into an older couple who were intrigued by the split leash. Is it easier to walk two dogs that way, they wanted to know. From my vantage point it’s easier, I sheepishly admitted. Rather than “guiding” me first in this direction, then immediately in that direction, Bowie (because that’s usually who’s doing the “guiding”) instead tugs Mona. In a way, they move together. . . symbiotically, one could say. In truth, Mona will be trotting along, in front, trying to enjoy our outdoor time, when a sudden jolt will launch her sideways; only residually will I feel it as it travels up the rest of the leash. To the older couple I simply explained that this was a pleasanter alternative to engaging in an interminable game of Chinese jump rope.
I look deep into Mona’s eyes, sense the unformed question, and assure her, he won’t always be a puppy. Wishing for it, not wishing. And Mona remains skeptical.
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