A Summer Walk With Libby

 

Almost every day, all year round, my dog Libby walks me. Yes, between the tugging, pulling, and “course-setting,” this little Yorkie-terrier is in charge. Every day at 3:00 p.m., she comes to my chair while I read, and stares. Finally, I look at her and sigh. “Okay, let’s go.” Libby trots to her leash and harness, triumphant. The world awaits.

July is one of the lushest, most beautiful months in Connecticut. Libby and I exit the front door, and already she’s pulling me down our walkway. I notice (quickly) the climbing roses on the side of the house. They look fat and healthy – red, pink, and delicate white – all courtesy of my mom who prunes and waters.

The sun feels hot and I worry about Libby’s paws on the pavement. She doesn’t seem to mind.

Purplish pink wildflowers line part of the driveway. For eighteen years, I thought they were Bachelor Buttons. But after posting their picture on Facebook, I’m told they’re Rose Campion. Who knew? They look Elizabethan, something that would’ve grown in William Shakespeare’s garden.

Libby leads me to the road. On the grassy side, she stops at a random spot and starts pawing. Doubtless, some unsuspecting chipmunk, woodchuck, or (shiver) snake lies below. I can’t imagine the labyrinth of tunnels, burrows, and warrens.

We turn right to the next street. Libby stops and sniffs the air, her black, leathery nostrils flexing in and out. What do you sense, I want to ask? Friend or foe? We live in the country. Bears, coyotes, and mountain lions have been spotted. I always wear a whistle around my neck, hoping a shrill blast will scare off predators.

Libby pulls the whole way, and although it’s annoying, it also breaks my heart. Her canine ancestors lived on farms in England. They were bred to hunt fox, badgers, and rabbit. Deep inside, Libby knows she should be running through some Yorkshire meadow. But she’s untrustworthy and I can’t let her loose. God knows, where she’d end up.

We walk to the dead end and back. Meanwhile, Libby explores everything in her path (and I mean everything) — wrappers, a dead squirrel, “offerings” by other dogs. “Yick, Libby,” I say, pulling her away. But the girl can’t help it. The world is an olfactory miracle.

We turn left, back onto our road, when I hear the cry of two hawks circling a maple tree. Are they fighting? Maybe mother hawk is teaching teenage hawk to hunt and kill. My problem with Mother Nature has always been her indifference to cruelty. “The hawks have to eat too,” my husband Randy would say. And I understand. I just don’t like the system.

We start back up our driveway when Libby tugs extra hard to sniff something on the asphalt. We get near and I recoil. A tiny dead snake lays there, beige with a brown stripe, probably hit by one of our cars. It’s no wider than a dime and has a ruby red drop of blood below its head. I take a deep breath, grab a big leaf to wrap around, and calmly toss it into the woods (okay, I screamed like a madwoman). Its body feels limp and soft and although I’m not a snake fan, I feel bad for this little life snuffed out.

We continue our route to the backyard where Libby picks the same, exact clover patch each day. There, she lies on her back and rolls back and forth with an ecstatic smile. This is the only time she’s not tugging.

I take a few moments to look around. Blue hydrangeas and light pink roses grow nearby. The hot summer air smells fresh and clean. A little brown butterfly flutters past. What a glorious time of year, I think, these special summer days, so dappled and warm and perfect. I push back thoughts of six months from now when the ground is frigid and snow-covered.

I push away the news and the always-alarming headlines.

I remind myself to be in the moment: here we are. And because of Libby, I enjoy these outdoor times more than I would on my own.

At the front walkway, I let Libby’s leash go and she trots to the front door on her own. I tell myself at least she has some freedom, even if it’s not the heaths of England.

“Thanks for the walk, Lib,” I say, once inside, taking off her gear. Libby smiles with her tongue hanging out. I watch as she runs to the kitchen for water.

 

Do you have a pooch to walk? Comments are always welcome and if you like, please share.

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