A walk on the slow side

When I walk, I like to git ‘er done. No shillyshallying, no ambling, no strolling, no sauntering, no rambling. Git. ‘Er. Done. It’s not that I count my steps; I don’t. I just have long legs, and they were made for walking.

On the rare occasions when I visited a mall (when people still congregated in such places), I got annoyed by slow-moving humans in front of me. I darted in and around bi-pedal traffic the way some motorcyclists weave around slower-moving cars.

Motorcyclists’ impatience is annoying and dangerous. I’m also annoying but not dangerous—at least not until someone trips or clotheslines me and I take out people with me in the process.

Even without mall walkers, I still encounter slow-pacers who are in no special hurry, and I dart and dodge and weave and bob. I have things to do and places to go, people! That it’s back home in a comfy chair with a good book is beside the point.

Don’t misunderstand: I’m not a speed walker. I don’t do the weird hip-rocking Olympic gait, and I don’t use hand weights. I am just a brisk walker.

At least that was true until Hank came into my life.

Lord Dogness is king of all walks. He sets the pace. He dictates the terms. And the terms include stopping. If you like stop-and-start traffic, Hank is your guy. If your philosophy is “stop-and-smell-the-roses-at-a-glacial-pace,” have I got a walking companion for you.

We amble, we stroll, we dawdle and all on the same walk. He will halt. He will sniff. He will sniff some more. He will raise his leg where he sniffed both times. Rinse, repeat.

He strains the leash to snatch a wadded piece of Kleenex or napkin, and empty snack bags are his siren song. He tries to eat other dogs’ and cats’ poo if I’m not quick enough to intervene. He digs his nose in the ground like he’s hunting truffles or burying nuts. Maybe he’s part pig, maybe part squirrel. It’s hard to tell amongst all the dead leaves what he’s foraging for.

This herky-jerky kind of jaunt used to bug me no end. Come on! Let’s move, mister! I see all these other pooches moving at a clip that makes me jealous. It also makes me wonder, where did they get a dog like that? And, what’s wrong with my dog?

I used to try to deter Hank from all this malingering until my daughter said, “Mom, it’s good for dogs to stop and sniff around. They are getting a lot of information, and it’s good for their brains.”

Turns out, she’s right. Ol’ Hank is not just obeying the dictates of his nature, he is smarter than I am yet again. He knows what he needs, and I am the numbskull trying to subvert it due to my own fractious nature. All that sniffing can boost a dog’s mood and reduce stress.

It’s both mental and physical exercise for a dog to sniff. It can tire out a dog if they get enough sniffing time. It makes sense. He’s figuring out who’s who and what’s what, and if we’re walking in a new place, as when visiting friends in Johnston, that’s a lot of new intel.

So, we’re at cross purposes here, Hank and I. He wants to malinger; I want to move. He wants to explore; I do not want to deal with piles of throw-up. He wants to roll in the grass, and I do not want to give him an unscheduled bath.

Yet, because he is smarter and more superior in almost every way, he usually wins the battle of the leash. He has much to teach me, and I’m learning to be a better student.

He could teach others, too.

Because he’s loyal and steadfast and always true to his nature, he would make a far better keeper of secrets than just about anyone currently in high places of power. He’s keeping them now, perched on the back of the couch, recovering from his brain workout.

Joan Zwagerman loves her dog, Hank, and Hank is a captive audience.