Mirror, Mirror

Above all else, do not lose your desire to walk.-Soren Kierkegaard

To say that my walks with Gavin have been arduous is the understatement of the decade. I was a lot younger the last time I was developing a relationship with a young, upbeat, cheeky dog AND I did not know any better when Finn was pulling so hard to get to the park that my knees burned with every step I took trying to keep up with him. He was so boisterous as a puppy. I once took him outside as a youngster during a rain storm with the intention of picking up his steaming pile of dung AFTER I took him back in the house. I knew if I tried to balance all 80 pounds of him, an umbrella and a bag of poop while wearing high heels; I would surely sprain an ankle or end up with feces all over my kicky Banana Republic slicker. As I was reeling Finn into the house, despite his desire to say hello to a very dedicated runner, I started to utter, "I swear I'm going..." when she yelled at me to pick up after my dog. I probably would have barked the same thing to someone I saw walking away from crap; she did not know I really did go back outside to perform my civic doodie.

This weekend, angels sang and the clouds parted when not only could I bend over for the obligatory sanitation chore without worry that the stinky mess might end up flying into my face but Gavin actually took treats outside, it was a true miracle. I swear I thought I heard the confident sound of violin strings as Lil' Big Head gently nibbled a hot dog, that I have been dutifully carrying for just that occasion. And, we had that moment you have when you have lived with a dog for a very short time and something clicks. Of course he hears "I love you" all day long and we have been having a blast together but understanding each other seems less of a daunting task than it was just a week ago; I can see we are becoming more of a team. Oh, the light!

We walked and walked with our new-found outside adoration for each other. Gavin just had to say hello to every single person, dog, squirrel we passed; still squirming and leaping to make everyone laugh. As we strolled, I was beaming and feeling grateful that I was not panting or rubbing my aching back and he was happy too. We ran into a giant yellow Lab named Sam. I asked the requisite question, "does he like other dogs?" Sam's mom gave me what I assume is the same look I give when folks pose the same query to me, a whale-eyed, head bobbing up and down so fast and with such enthusiasm it might just fly off into the warm, breezy air. So, I allowed Gavin to say hello and he propelled himself at the big, buttery lug. Sam jovially pounced back onto to my little monkey, tail spinning with delight as he stood over an amused, wriggling Gavin.

So, as the boys took turns laughing and hip checking the other, I chatted with Sam's mom who told me he was a year old. I started talking about Finn. She was so darling as she genuinely and sympathetically apologized for my loss. But, I did not just say "thank you" and continue talking about the two goobers playing right at our feet. My mouth just kept moving and the verbal diarhhea continued. I shared that I said goodbye to him at the very park we were standing and with every cringe she tried to hide from me, I could not stop myself. She was polite and said she hopes to see us again as she scurried away.

Around Christmas time, I was walking Finn through Horner Park and because Chicago is very much a transplant city; it was eerily peaceful. We had spent a whole hour traipsing up the hill and along the river without me gritting my teeth and telling someone to "Please get your dog on a leash. I don't care if he's friendly, mine has been attacked multiple times. He's old and just wants to walk and sniff", voice growing more scratchy with every word. As we approached the corner of Montrose and California, the puppy zoomies struck my cherished senior, Finn. He had not been off-leash at the park for some time, his hearing was fading. A couple times, I went to look for him because it was rare he was not within five feet of me only to find him standing at the bottom of the stairs; expecting me to come back down from Kate's kitchen. I was careful not to startle him or hurt his dignity. Then, Finn's head whipped abruptly towards me, grey eyebrows fluttering to let me know he was so surprised and happy to see me.

But, that day, at the park he was squealing, jumping up and down and play bowing like he was a young stallion again; and he never had not one, but two anterior cruciate ligament surgeries. I looked ahead of us and there was this round bellied, VERY lively, tan and white pitbull puppy dragging his cheerful-looking parents through the park. It had been many, many years since Finn was so excited about another random dog on the street. They went in a completely different direction than we did and seemed so enamored with their fur baby that I do not think they even saw us but I treasured those moments of spontaneous senior sass.

Last week, I met a new client with a beautiful, spunky chocolate and an unbelievably sweet, sassy, senior black Labrador. Of course, I had an instant crush on both of them and tried laborously not regurgitate my crud at her. It is difficult when someone else is talking about their aging animal not to mention the goodbye I recently whispered to my best four-legged companion but I appreciate that is the last thing I wanted to hear when I was out and about with Finn. So many times over the past couple of years; I saw pity in people's eyes because Finn was old, even though he was happy and bouncing along next to me. Or, they would ask how old he was, followed by "how long do they live?" Facing the day without our senior fur buddies is not something we want thrown at us, it is there all the time. Old and sad do not always coincide so the next time I meet a senior dog, I'll leave my comments to, "what a sweetie".