A Walker in the Suburbs

This morning our dog, Copper, was especially rambunctious. We don’t know what got into him exactly, but he came inside after his morning romp and skittered all over the living room and kitchen. He chased his tail. He ran loops in our house. He looked for all the world like a canine comedian, milking us for every laugh he could.

I let him back into the yard where he ran big loops with a red ball in his mouth. More laughs. It’s impossible to watch that little guy rocket across a space, his long, low body (one of our friends says he seems to be put together out of spare, mismatched dog parts) blurred by motion. He’s the life force itself. The very essence of joy.

When he’s done he runs up to us with a funny grin on his face, as if to say, aren’t you proud of me.

And at that moment I forget about the loud barking, the accidents on the carpet, the ruined back door, the times he’s run away and left us with our heart in our throats. I reach down and pat the little guy.

“Good boy,” I say. “Good boy, Copper.”

On days I work at home I spend quiet time with Copper and Hermes. They’re with me now on the (rapidly warming) deck. If I need to stretch, I’ll throw the ball with Copper or take him on a walk (a word which cannot be said unless immediate action is intended). I turn to Hermes for mental stimulation. He talks, after all, though his vocabulary is limited. He is also good for comic relief, especially when he sneezes at the wild birds to get their attention. They must wonder what kind of creature lives in a cage and says “I love you.”

The company of animals on a busy Monday morning. They keep me humble; they keep me sane.

Summer mornings are kind to the suburban walker. They are cool and quiet and they arrive a few minutes after 5. This morning I was out before the sun, and at the end of our neighborhood I saw three deer. They were young and thin, their faces impossibly narrow. I’ll admit: They look much cuter bounding through the woods than they do up close. For a minute all three of them froze, a self-protective device, I imagine. But then two of them ran back into the brush. Only one — the brazen one? the curious one? — stayed where she was. She looked me up one side and down the other. She took my measure, and I took hers. I think she could tell I meant her no harm. I was just another fellow creature taking the morning air.