I spent the afternoon walking the dogs. Lucky for me, our house backs on to 4 kilometers of walking trails – well, walking trails now, but originally it was an old farm road, made redundant when the path of the new road changed.
The road winds uphill from our house, through a path of arched trees and between heavy woods. It crosses our stream, which runs downhill and becomes, for one moment, a small waterfall. At night, when it’s quiet, I can hear the water rushing over the rocks from our bedroom window. From our deck, or from the pool, it sounds like a real waterfall, not the trickle it actually is.
The dogs love this walk – they are never happier than when they are barreling up that hill in front of me, stopping to investigate interesting smells, intriguing puddles, stray patches of tall grass, bugs on rotten logs. They will only go as far as my sight line, even Delilah now, who in her not so very long ago youth would have been three counties away and not looking back once. Her mother, Sailor, was the queen of the runaways in her youth. She once led us on a chase that lasted three blocks, over roads and through yards and into heart stopping moments where I wasn’t sure if she was going to be killed, or if I was going to kill her. Now, Sailor doesn’t stray more than two feet away from me. Old age apparently has its advantages.
It’s entirely possible that walking dogs through what is, essentially, my backyard is a fairly boring way to spend a Saturday afternoon. There’s not much I’d trade it for, even so.
Photos after the cut.