My walks with Gigi are not always perfect. She’s a terrier I haven’t taken the proper care to train, and because of that, she barks at every single damn dog she sees. It’s a nuisance, really.
But she likes people. She likes the man who faithfully blows leaves around the radiology building every weekday. She likes José, who drives his golf cart over to give her treats. She likes the woman who walks to work in moccasins and a big coat, no matter the weather. She wags her tail warmly at anyone who slows their car to beam appreciatively at her almond eyes. Okay, sometimes she barks at this, too.
Some walks with Gigi are perfect. The air is just right, and I notice things I might otherwise miss. The way her leash chain scrapes softly against the sidewalk when she smooshes her face into a patch of lemongrass. The slow drip of condensation from an awning—one drop, then another—making the faintest beat. The absence of traffic.
This morning, I noticed an office complex that never decorates had strung up lights in their lobby. I stopped and stared while she tugged gently, urging me forward.
Maybe it’s just the noticing.
That’s what we’re supposed to do more of.
Thoughts?