This will be another piece about walking my dog, which begs the question: do I need more life experiences to write about? Perhaps. But isn’t it lovely to escape on a habitual walk, in a world of sensory observations and musings?
Our two-mile Saturday walk is such an escape. Gigi’s four little legs hurry while I do my best on one and a half. I say this because it seems only one foot of mine is operating normally; the other must rely on only three out of five of my toes, and that is… interesting.
The very-nearly-autumn sun threads spiderwebs into lasers between tree branches. The scent of chlorine drifts from the pool supply store and I’m nine again, wet bare feet slapping pavement, hair dripping. A man steps into the shop with the shiniest blue sunglasses perched on the back of his head, and I laugh at this style choice.
We pass the new donut place, and chlorine is replaced by the most fantastic smell of hot glazed donuts. I wish I could stop and get one, but there’s only one vegan option and I can’t decide if it’ll be worth it or not. In this moment, the man who has decided we are enemies spots us. He has a tiny black Affenpinscher who behaves much better than Gigi at the sight of us. He abruptly runs the other way, and I think, Coward, as Gigi loses her mind with the wish to make friends.
There is a woman with long dark hair in an eggshell-white flowy dress smoking outside Chateau Cellars, and I think how beautiful she looks near the words. She doesn’t smile when she catches me noticing her. Minutes later, rounding the corner past the breakfast shop, I see the old couple who have their own Saturday routine. The husband always taps the window and waves excitedly at Gigi, not me, to be perfectly clear.
I purposely take stones over asphalt whenever I can, craving the crunch beneath my feet. Even with bad toes (toe bad?), it feels like proof I’m alive. Each step more satisfying than the muffled quiet of the smooth back streets we weave through.
The heat makes my hair balloon into something feral, and I long for northern climates and crisp air. By our halfway mark, I feel like I have the appearance of someone unhinged. Cars roll past slowly, sometimes with men unapologetically craning their necks to measure if I’m worth the second look, and I don’t know why I like looking brazenly back.
Gigi is filthy and tired when we get home. Long strings of grass seeds cling to the hair around her paws and chest. She gets her own spa treatment before I even get a second cup of coffee. And oh, how I know I’ll love that I recapped our small moments while she lays beside me, as I type this and press “Publish” for future me.
(Daily Writing 092)
Thoughts?