Category Archives: Walking the Dog

Kiko the Service Dog

May 24, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Kiko will see you now.

As I’ve mentioned before, there may be nothing Kiko likes more than a ride in the car, followed by a walk. In cool weather he accompanies me on daily outings. Before I do my grocery shopping, get my allergy shot, or whatever, we walk. Afterwards, he waits contentedly in the car until I return, either keeping a look-out from the driver’s seat, or snoozing in the back. One day last week, we were cutting through the yard of the Sunrise, an assisted living facility, on our way to a nearby park. As we rounded a curve on the path, we met a couple pushing a sleepy looking elderly woman in a wheelchair. Upon spotting Kiko, she woke up. Oh, look!, she exclaimed. What a beautiful dog! I love dogs! Her companions were visibly cheered, as well; suddenly an unpromising walk had taken a decidedly more satisfying turn.

As I see it, Kiko regally assumes that everyone he encounters is there for the express purpose of an audience with him. He is a beneficent monarch, one who graciously and generously bestows the gift of his royal presence. Because he lacks any pressing matters of state, should no loyal subjects appear, he has the humility to lie down and await their certain arrival. That day at the Sunrise, no wait was required; homage was instant. After an initial greeting, Kiko sat calmly at the base of the wheelchair while the smiling Sunrise resident, her face twenty years younger now, petted and adored him.

You must bring him by again!, she urged. We used to have a dog named Shadow who lived here, and I miss him so much. Her son told me that Shadow was a big dog, a lab-pit bull mix. He had the run of the Sunrise until he began jumping on the residents, prompting an employee to adopt him. There was no longer a house dog, and Shadow had left an empty space.

That got me thinking. Could Kiko help fill that space? During high school and college, I had enjoyed visiting with nursing home residents on a weekly basis, but I hadn’t been able to bring my dog. On a cool sunny day the next week, when Kiko and I were going to the grocery, I decided to drop by the Sunrise with him. His welcome was warm and immediate, from staff and residents alike. An appreciative crowd gathered, with my little dog at its center.

I asked a staff member if dogs needed special training to visit; I had always assumed they did. My friend Celeste completed several obedience classes with her dog Beau to certify him as a nursing home therapy dog. Kiko passed his puppy class, but just barely, due to his headstrong on-leash behavior. We did not continue his formal education. Surprisingly, no special training for visiting dogs was required at this facility. To return on a regular basis, a dog needed only proof of vaccinations.

Several residents and staff mentioned that Miss Anne sure would like to see the dog. Did we have time for a room visit?

Of course! A caregiver escorted us upstairs, via the elevator, a first for Kiko, one that he took in easy-going stride.

When we arrived at the room, its occupant yelled loudly and gruffly for us to enter. The big voice belonged to a fragile little lady. Miss Anne was lying perfectly, alarmingly inert on her bed, and she appeared to be in no mood for guests. Until she saw Kiko, that is. Suddenly she was up and attempting to pop out of bed with such alacrity that I was afraid she would topple to the floor. The caregiver jumped in, luckily, to help her safely maneuver to the side of the bed. Kiko sat at her feet. He even gazed up at her with an expression that could be described as loving. Such a show of emotion is unusual for him.

After a while, Miss Anne asked me, Didn’t I see you out back before? It wasn’t until then that I realized this was the same woman Kiko and I had met earlier outside with her son and daughter-in-law. I’m sure she recognized Kiko, not me. How fitting it was that, by chance, we found our way back to her, just as she had hoped we would.

Our family sometimes jokes that Kiko would be the world’s worst guide dog. There is no amount of obedience training, no army of diligent, expert dog whisperers, that could ready him for the job that many labs, golden retrievers and German shepherds seem born to do. It’s not in him, and it’s not in his breed. But, like all dogs given the opportunity, all those we welcome into our lives with love, Kiko has a gift for brightening his little corner of the world. And now, with the relative maturity of his nearly six years, he has the unflappable, mellow temperament to bring special cheer to the Sunrise. How lucky it is that we met Miss Anne and her family that day! Kiko will be back next week to check in with his new friends.

Having put in his service hours, Kiko rests.

Community, Nature, Walking the Dog

Escape to the Country, in Suburbia

April 24, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

One of the most appealing features of our little corner of Northern Virginia is the beauty of its landscape. It’s pleasantly hilly, interestingly rolling, never aggressively steep. Woodlands are interspersed with open fields, vestigial traces of the many farms that dotted the area in the last century. We consider ourselves fortunate to live in one of the last few surviving farmhouses. On their 200 acres, the original owners planted wheat and raised chickens. They had a small apple orchard and a sizable flower garden.

On the other side of the winding county road, where big fields sweep down to small lakes, some families still keep horses. There are charming little stables, grassy paddocks and old vine-covered wooden fences. When Kiko and I walk there, it’s hard to believe we’re in suburbia, a place I never expected to live. We cross the road, follow a short path through the woods, and we’re suddenly somewhere more remote. It’s almost like a quick trip through time and space to the countryside of my childhood at my grandparents’ farm in Kentucky. Early on a spring morning, it’s an especially satisfying escape.

Family, Walking the Dog

Evading the Terrible Thunder Monster

April 18, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine 1 Comment

One morning last week, when the sky was still dark, we were awakened by a sound we hadn’t heard in several months: loud, rumbling thunder. Kiko had been asleep on the floor between my bed and his. As I expected, he was sitting up, looking around uneasily. I could read his little doggie mind: Oh nooooo! Is that what I think it is? The terrible monster is back! It didn’t die! Where is it? Will I see it this time?

Kiko has only one real fear. In the presence of snarling, threatening, enormous dogs, he holds his head up, cool and composed. He has never met a person who frightened him, although he barks with some alarm at those who insist on wearing large, unflattering shoes with shorts. As a puppy, he was afraid of garbage trucks and wheeled trash bins, but now they do not phase him. Thunder, however, is another story.

That morning, he quickly vanished from my room. When he returned a while later and jumped up in bed with me, his fur was wet in spots. Strange, I thought.

At the slightest suggestion of thunder, Kiko begins a frantic, unsatisfying routine. First he searches for visible signs of the approaching menace. He stares intently at the windows and darts from door to door. He recognizes flashes of light as extremely bad omens, likewise the appearance and sound of rain. Once his worst fears are confirmed, he seeks a better place. Unfortunately, there is no better place. He attempts to maneuver himself into confined spaces: closets, under desks, behind arm chairs, even behind the toilet or in the angle of the open refrigerator door. Once, when we had removed the kitchen trash bin from its cabinet, he sought refuge there. But no place is ever safe enough. He is soon on to the next spot.

If all this fails to console, and it always fails, his last resort is physical closeness with one of the pack. As I’ve mentioned before, if all is well, Kiko doesn’t need to be in your lap, or in your face (he’s not a kisser, unless you’ve just eaten cheese). While very social when we’re out walking, at home he prefers solitude and the freedom to enjoy a variety of spots for unencumbered relaxation and sleep. He’d rather you not disturb his rest by joining him on the sofa. He may begin the night downstairs in the playroom. Toward morning, I may find him sleeping in his bed in the corner of my room. Occasionally he stretches out on the foot of my bed, but he never remains there long.

Only thunder prompts him to get close, and then he can’t get close enough. Usually he is too nervous to sit or lie down. If he catches you off guard, he may try to stand on you, perhaps on your chest or neck. This is extremely unpleasant for everyone involved. Or he tries to sit on your pillow, which I will not allow. Wrapping him in a towel or the bedspread offers some solace. I considered buying a Thundershirt, but those I’ve seen appear to be hot and heavy. He’s already panting excessively; I could imagine a thick, binding coat leading to spontaneous combustion.

As I readied breakfast for our daughter that day, Kiko stuck by me like glue, huddling in the space between my legs and the kitchen cabinets. When I opened the dishwasher, he considered getting in it. The thunder continued, so I turned to the only remedy that verges on effective: Xanax. Prescribed by the vet, it takes the edge off, so he is less distraught. It allows him to cease roaming, lie down and minimize the panting and shaking.

When H appeared for breakfast, I asked if he knew why Kiko’s fur had been wet. He did. When Kiko had left me, H had been in the shower. Frenzied desperation seems to endow our dog with a near-magical power to open any door. Suddenly, there he was, in the shower with H, trying to dodge the drops. This was a first, even for our weird little dog. He hates getting wet nearly as much as he hates thunder. When he realized there was no escaping the water, he began pawing at the shower door. Once released, he dashed upstairs to find me.

Nothing else had worked. He had abandoned all dignity and was prepared to snuggle. I had been expecting him, so he he missed the chance to stand on my throat.

Kiko0021 — Did I just see a flash? Did I hear thunder? Here it goes again!

Nature, Walking the Dog

Day 1: Spring 2013

March 20, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Kiko refuses to acknowledge Daylight Savings Time; his alarm does not reset in the wee hours of March 9. He remains purposefully curled in his bed until actual daylight has worked its way into our house. Accordingly, we’ve been walking later. He has the right idea, I realize. March mornings this year have tended toward the cold and cloudy. A walk at 7 AM is likely to be an exercise in gray. An hour or two later, the world is a brighter, warmer, more welcoming place, and its beauty can be better appreciated.

Two days ago, the daffodils were bowed down by yet another late snow. As the sun warms their bobbing heads on this first day of spring, it’s good to see that they’re none the worse for bearing that chilly burden.

The maple trees are getting the message: it really is go time.

These cherry trees in our neighborhood, in the first stage of bloom, are right on schedule. The National Cherry Blossom Festival begins today in DC, with peak bloom expected April 3 – 6.

Kiko and I walk past these mahonia shrubs nearly every day. Mahonia is a vicious looking plant, especially during late summer and fall. Only Morticia Addams would include it in a bouquet. With its tough, spiky leaves, it resembles holly on steroids. In the very midst of winter, however, it begins to show a gentler side; it bears tiny, pale yellow, bell-like flowers that fill the frosty air with a fresh lemony fragrance. As spring arrives, the flowers give way to lush clusters of oval-shaped berries, much loved by the birds. This particular plant is leatherleaf mahonia, or mahonia bealei. Incredibly hearty, it’s invasive if left unchecked. What began as a single mahonia plant in my parents’ back yard forty years ago is now a tall, rather forbidding free-form hedge. I have a soft spot in my heart for mahonia; like nandina and wild trumpet vine, it reminds me of home. When I was growing up, mahonia berries featured prominently in playtime pretend recipes. Light green when they first appear, the berries darken to purple as they ripen. They have a delicate, powdery outer coating, which disappears as they’re handled, revealing the fruit’s true, more intense color. For this reason, mahonia berries often served as the primary ingredient in the “magic” potions my friends and I concocted. Sometimes, all that stood between life and death in our imagined storylines was a single, glowing mahonia berry.

Walking in the sun with my dog on this first morning of spring, I could feel the new season at hand. The birds were chirping, yelling, soaring, partying. Squirrels were jumping and scurrying with renewed vigor, much to Kiko’s delight. Plants were edging up out of brown, dead leaves, stretching new green shoots into the light. I’m in a mood to buy eggs, baby salad greens and asparagus. This afternoon, I might even get out the Easter decorations. Maybe it will be like the old days, when my daughter looked forward to getting home from school so she and I could dye eggs and gather branches for our Easter tree. Maybe. Spring makes all things new again. We’ll see.

May spring bring new warmth and joy to your life!

Nature, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

At Long Last, A Snow Day in Northern Virginia

March 6, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

The snow that my daughter has yearned for all winter here in Virginia finally arrived early this morning. Understandably, this first significant, inordinately late snow of the season is a much-anticipated weather event. All week long every local TV station has had their Storm Watch coverage going full force. Giddy newscasters reported from points as yet untouched by snow, assuring us that the flakes were on their way. Usually, when this happens, it’s either a huge deal, like the blizzard of December 2009 that shut down the DC area for a week, or it’s a complete and utter bust. This was different; it fell somewhere in between.

Not a flake had descended at midnight last night. When we awoke this morning, it didn’t look like much, just a minimal coating on the ground and a fine snow floating down. But more was emphatically promised. Forecasts called for heavy snow all day and into the night. Schools, the Federal government, and many offices were closed. Even H’s office was closed, which is very rare indeed.

Once D and I went out to walk Kiko, enormous, sloppy flakes the size of mini-snowballs began pelting, and quickly drenching us. It was like walking in a heavy, thick, wet rain. It was not especially pleasant.

The snow continues to fall thickly now. D is at a friend’s house sledding, and H is out on the driveway with his never-before-used snow blower. He knew the snow was probably too wet, but he had to give the new toy a try. It’s kicking up an impressively wide spray of white slush. I hope both D and H are happy. Kiko and I are. We’re inside, warm and dry, and we plan to stay that way.

Kiko doesn’t seem to mind wearing his coat, which keeps him somewhat dry. He doesn’t like rain, and this snow bears a strong resemblance to rain.

Kiko has had enough of the fat white rain. Time to go in and dry off.

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Walking the Dog

Kiko’s Close Call

March 5, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

During our visit to Rochester, we left Kiko alone with H’s parents one afternoon while we went out. We felt no anxiety about leaving the dog with them. I don’t think I even gave a single thought to Kiko while we were gone. Grandma and Grandpa are worriers. They are careful. They visualize every possibility of disaster, no matter how remote. They looked after our two-year old daughter for ten days when H, my parents and I went to France. Everyone was fine. They should have no problem dealing with Kiko for an hour and a half.

When we returned, Grandpa came quickly to the door. He was clearly shaken. We knew something was up. Everything’s alright, he said, breathlessly. It’s all OK. . . . But Kiko got out.I was immediately beset by panic, even though Kiko was right there, looking up at me, perfectly fine, intact and unharmed, a bit sleepy.The story unfolded. Shortly after we left, Grandpa decided to get the car washed. With Rochester’s constant snow and never-ending salt and slush on the roads, car washes are a routine necessity. He looked into the living room and saw Kiko asleep on his bed. In the kitchen, he pressed the garage door opener, as he always does, before going out the side door. It was then that he was aware of a reddish flash behind him. Kiko was already in the garage and dashing out into the driveway. Grandpa lunged for the dog, managing to grab his tail, which looks very much like a curled handle, as on a teapot. But Kiko was moving too fast, and the tug on his tail merely caused him to yelp and move even faster.Our brilliant dog turned left at the end of the driveway and bounded down the very center of the street. H’s parents’ live on a busy road, where cars speed by with dependable frequency. This was no quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac. Oh no.

Fortunately Grandma heard Grandpa yell and was alerted to the situation. I had showed her Kiko’s bag of treats and left them out on the table. Thinking quickly, she got a treat and rushed out in pursuit. By this time Grandpa and the dog were well down the road. Kiko would stop occasionally and look back, then fly off again playfully. He was evidently thinking, This is a great game!. When he heard Grandma yell pleasantly, Kiko, treat!, he paused long enough to allow Grandpa to catch up and grab his collar. Luckily, I hadn’t removed the collar as I usually do at home; this dog is as slippery as an otter. Kiko was saddened and stunned to see the game ending so quickly, and he did all he could to resist returning home. He splayed his legs, put his head down resolutely, and managed to make his compact 26-pound bulk feel much heavier. But Grandpa was determined, and mustering his strength, he corraled our little runaway beast.

Considering that Grandpa and Grandma generally don’t move especially fast, it is a near-miracle that they managed to catch our speedy dog. Evidently the adrenaline rush fueled their unusual alacrity. The real miracle, according to Grandpa, was the absence of a single car passing by during the entire episode.

We all visualized various grim alternate endings: Grandpa collapses in the street with a heart attack, Grandma slips on the icy road and breaks a hip, and Kiko is still flattened by a Suburban.

We would all be awash in blame. The whys and the what-ifs would be dizzying and relentless. Why didn’t we ask Grandma and Grandpa if they planned to go out? Why didn’t we warn them about the garage door? What if we had taken Kiko with us? Grandpa would regret that car wash for the rest of his life, as H, D and I would regret that day’s outing.

Here, I am, close to tears, again, imagining the sad trip back to Virginia, without Kiko. Or with his inert little body packed in ice in the back of the car? I doubt we could have buried him in the frozen Rochester ground. We would have had to gather up all his stuff–his bed, blanket, food bowls, treats, Foxy, his little coat. Oh, his little plaid coat, the coat he wore only once! And now my heart is breaking for parents who have lost children (and I do mean human children) who must confront the tormenting evidence–the forlorn toys, the clothes, the snow boots–that screams: She’ll be back! She’s at a friend’s house. He’ll be home from school at 4:00! How do such parents answer, without going insane: No, pretty red dress, my baby won’t be home again. No, boots, he will not use you for this snow, or ever. Only with God’s help.

But our ending, this time, was a happy one. I don’t think God held back the cars that day. Nor do I think he assigns guardian angels to dogs. But maybe God did give Grandpa and Grandma the unaccustomed speed they needed to catch our escaped monster. And maybe he looked after them so they did not get hurt in the process. Maybe he helped Grandma remember that a treat might work magic. And maybe luck was simply on our side.

Today, safely at home, my Kiko is warm in the sun. I will cuddle him, and give thanks again. And I will say a prayer for those wrestling with an unhappy ending.

Kiko sleeps in the March sun.

Now Grandma and Grandpa have signs like this one on all their doors, just as we do in our house.

Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel, Walking the Dog

North to the Sugar Shack: Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn

February 22, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes. Pancakes and maple syrup. We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere. Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.” Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends. It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather. H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer. Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.

The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s. The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup. In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public. The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large. It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point. In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience. It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.

Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup. The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket. At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever. H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying. That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar. H was right. There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.

Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence. Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so, gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets. As far as I know, this is not an option at IHOP.

These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch whiskies, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir. H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups. My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.

Rochester 010 — The snowy landscape behind the Maple Tree Inn.

Rochester 014 — Kiko and I walk through the surrounding fields before I join the others for lunch.

Kiko keeps vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he has his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needs to hunker down for warmth. Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat. The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned. For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.

Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009. Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two. D, on the other hand, has changed.

006 — We stocked up at the Maple Tree Inn.

Community, Nature, Walking the Dog

Fat Tuesday Sunshine

February 12, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

On this Fat Tuesday afternoon here in northern Virginia, the sun is emphatic in its brightness and temperatures are well into the mid-50s. Kiko again sought out his customary spring spot on the terrace. He reminds me of a northern tourist revelling in the winter Caribbean sunshine.

The sunshine was so abundant, so luxurious, and so relaxing,
that Kiko had no choice but to sleep.

Before long he woke up, overheated. It’s February 12, and he had to find some shade.

Family, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

In a Snippy Household, the One Who Will Not Talk Back

February 6, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

As my last post attests, my family and I tend to be a touchy bunch around each other. We are polite and well-behaved when we mix in society at large. We don’t pick fights; we don’t brood over perceived insults dealt out by acquaintances or the general public. But when we’re at home together, just the three of us, it may be a different story. We are not an unhappy family. Nor are we always indignant or incensed. We have many moments of placid, content complacency, substantial periods of harmony. But when something sets one of us off, we’re all going over the edge, and quickly. Watch out. (See, for example, An Evening of Discontent, Part II: The Big Family Dog-Walking Fight, October 2011.)

At home, our finely tuned radar is on near-constant alert for the slightest hint of sarcasm, negativity, discourtesy of tone or, heaven help us, an ill-chosen word. The faintest traces of insult or anger, whether real, or more typically, imagined, rarely elude us. With the barest minimum of words exchanged, we may be suddenly engulfed in a family-wide conflagration. When this happens, nothing helps but time, and time apart. With some stomping and huffing, we retreat to our own respective areas in the house. Sometimes, from my husband and daughter, the stomping is accompanied by loud whistling. Speech is pointless for a while, because we will be certainly be misunderstood.

But one member of our family maintains an admirably even keel. Our dog is either above, or beneath all this drama. Kiko never reacts badly, never acknowledges an insult, and he never makes a cutting remark.

I talk to Kiko a lot.

When he and I are home alone during the day, I keep up a running, one-sided conversation, heavy on the exclamation points. It’s typical, mindless doggie talk: Hello sweet baby! Are you the sweetest little fella? Of course you’re the sweetest fella! You’re such a velvety baby! You have the best fur! Are you the best old angel? Of course you’re the best old angel! You’re my angel! I love you so much! I just love you! Sometimes I tell him, very nicely, of course, that he’s a terrible boy, a very bad sweetie, just because I can, and it doesn’t matter one whit to Kiko. I think it’s to my credit, at least, that I don’t speak in a high-pitched, artificial tone often preferred when addressing babies and dogs. I use my normal voice to repeat my plodding menu of banalities.

As dogs go, Kiko is not particularly expressive. He does not gaze into my eyes with love and admiration. If I want that, I go down the street to see George, the big-hearted golden retriever. Kiko’s response to my ongoing chatter is subtle. My first words may be greeted with the raise of a doggie eyebrow. I’m reminded of Chad Everett, on whom I had a middle school crush when he starred as the charming, handsome Dr. Joe Gannon on TV’s Medical Center. While Dr. Gannon’s lifted brow indicated kindness and concern, Kiko’s indicates an openness to any words of consequence, such as Wanna take a walk? Wanna go for a ride? Want some cheese? To these questions he responds with a head tilt, perhaps followed by a stretch and a vigorous full-body shake. Barring these welcome phrases, he remains largely inert, with the possible exception of his ears. Unlike Chad Everett, Kiko has a wide range of motion in his ears, which may move independently of one another as though in vague reply. Otherwise, he’s utterly, quietly motionless. If I hover or confine him too long in a hug, he may sigh. I take this as a signal to back off and shut up. But that mild protest is as close to a rebuke as he ever makes.

You fellow dog owners understand the benefits of talking to your dog. As you know, we converse with our dogs not for their sake, but for our own. It makes us feel better. For me, there is hardly a situation that cannot be eased, at least a little, by making ridiculous remarks to my dog. Considering the atmosphere of irascibility that may reign in our household, it’s wonderful to know that no matter what I say to Kiko, peace and equanimity will prevail.

Kiko002 — A typical response from Kiko to my ongoing chatter.

Family, Walking the Dog

Why Not Just Let the Dog Out?

January 28, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

As suggested on my About Wild Trumpet Vine page, I often write about walking my dog. Those who can’t imagine why anyone would choose to write about dog walking are unlikely to be regular readers. There may be some of you who wonder why my dog has to be walked multiple times a day in every kind of nasty weather. Why not just let him out, occasionally, in the fenced back yard? Doesn’t he have the good sense to relieve himself, perhaps, as we had hoped, in the woodsy, secluded area behind the garage? These are good questions. The answer to the first is complicated; the answer to the second is simple: NO.

Kiko, true to his Shiba Inu nature, is emphatically clean and fastidious. This sounded like an excellent trait when we were considering our future family dog. And in many ways, it is a good trait. Our yard is never messy, and our carpets are holding up well. But obsessive cleanliness has its dark side. Kiko refuses to sully not only his home, but also the broad vicinity of home.

Several years ago we tried cutting down on the walks. After Kiko had injured his back leg in a reckless jump from our unfinished back porch (see A Puppy Days Delayed Replay, Nov. 2011), the vet advised keeping walks to a minimum. At the time, I was recovering from surgery, and the prospect of fewer winter dog walks was appealing.

Ever since he was a puppy, Kiko has indicated his desire to go out by staring fixedly at me, then pawing at the door. Instead of gathering my cold-weather gear and the leash, as I had typically done before, I began opening the door that leads to our porch and enclosed back yard. Kiko would rush through his doggie door with a great sense of urgency and purpose, make a speedy circuit of the yard, return immediately and begin pawing impatiently to come inside. This would be followed by another staring episode, another interior pawing at the door, another fast trip around the yard. We repeated the process so many times that I felt as though I was losing my mind. Kiko seemed to feel the same way. I could see his frustration: Why can’t we walk? I’ve got to get out of this stupid yard! This is my hunting and lounging area, not my potty place, for heaven’s sake!

NewYears001 — The Kiko Stare: Take me Out, Now!!!

I tried walking him on the leash in the back yard, but that only compounded the misery, adding mine to his. I invited neighborhood dogs over to visit, hoping they would mark and inspire Kiko. He remained uninspired and steadfast. His obstinacy is matched by the strength of his bladder; our dog is nothing if not continent. Kiko gave in a very few times, but only in the middle of the night and in hopeless, broken, pitiful desperation. The next day the routine would begin again. No break-through came, and the situation was intolerable. It wasn’t doing anything to further my recovery or my dog’s.

We went back to walking, much to Kiko’s relief, as well as mine. I brought new resolves of patience to the task. I’ve mentioned that despite the miles we cover together, Kiko’s on-leash behavior is generally less than stellar (see The Joys and Travails of Walking our Strange Little Dog, Oct. 2011). But I find it hard to blame him. My extremely social dog is under the thrall of his acute sense of smell. His nose serves as smartphone, Internet, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, all rolled into one neat package that he cannot set aside. Kiko smells great troves of valuable information about his friends—Buster turned left at this corner, Annie says hi, Shyla wonders where he’s been, Lucy is tolerating the new foster puppies, and sweet three-legged Raven is having a good day. I hate to block my dog’s vast friendship network by dictating exactly where he can and cannot go.

KikoLucy006 — Kiko’s nose often leads him to his buddy Lucy, who is similarly fastidious. A well-matched pair of old friends, they seem to be holding paws.

After the painful, failed trial period of not walking, it seemed that Kiko’s behavior improved somewhat, or perhaps I simply chose to believe that it did. I had missed walking my odd little dog even as I tried to avoid it. Now, it’s a given that on the most frigid of mornings, I will be out with Kiko. I walk with him because I consider it my duty. It’s in our contract now. I stay out far longer than necessary because I enjoy it, despite the weather. It wasn’t Kiko’s fault that the tendrils of hair at the side of my face froze one day last week when it was 15 degrees. I had been breathing into my scarf, and the condensation turned to ice. We didn’t need to wander for an hour and a half (although cold days are Kiko’s preference). But I was well-bundled, and once we were out, in the still-snowy, beautifully frozen woods, spotting Kiko’s double, the red fox, the watchful pair of hawks, the pileated woodpecker and the white deer that roams our area, I didn’t want to hurry home.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.