Sunlit with wisps of breeze off the sound, through the trees and across the rooftops, we set out late this morning. I like to think that walking the dog, a habit of long-standing reverence in my life, can be perfunctory or wildly anomalous and so far, that’s proven true.
I’d finished a coffee date with my pal, John, and we two set out to rectify all the various world’s problems, touching on everything from the currents of political noise to the happenings in our own lively and daily obligations, commitments and travails. Satisfied, and stuffed with goodwill, good coffee and good food, we said our goodbye and went into the world.
Seamus, our bouncing, sometimes beleaguered beagle, awaited the leash and harness as he so often does. With his usual enthusiasm, he bore a hole in my pedantry around and about the house with his long gaze, flecked by bits of high pitched whines and squeals. 60% of a dog’s inbound intelligence comes through its nose, and for Seamus, it has to be more and he exercises it best when out for a walk. For one thing, he’s close to the ground and scoops it all in and stops frequently to smell out whatever delicacy may attract his mighty olfactory senses. It makes it hard to get in the cardio-points at times, and I try making up for it by getting him to the middle of uncrowded streets where only asphalt is available to him. He’s a bit smarter than that, of course, and his nose’s autopilot tries to steer back to its desired course.
It was mild and pleasant as we entered the woods, and the dappling sunlight flitted about on the rocking reeds, weeds, branches and boughs as Seamus navigated the dreaded blackberry branch trailings. Their sharp thorns have dragged cuts in both of us in recent days, and he’s leery about them—even enough that he’ll frequently get behind me, letting me lead the way, and lift, kick or bend branches for him.
I had my headphones on, and was listening to a podcast and rather into the story well enough when down a particularly narrow trail, we nearly literally ran into an older couple who seemed a bit more confused than is desirable in the woods. There’s no real danger to speak of, but get turned around here and there, and it will take a bit of time to get out. They were pleasant, kind and talkative and asked if I knew the way to Waughop Lake. “We’re on our way there now, follow us,” I said and introduced myself. James and Jacquelyn had been regular hikers here at one time, but they hadn’t been down for a while. It wasn’t that, however, as much as the trail itself gets overgrown with blackberry branch and cattle grass thickets this time of year, and it feels almost impassable.
Blade-straight and scything slowly, lifting and holding thorny branches, Seamus and I led the way through the greenery- haggard trail and out to the clear path on the other side. Seamus, in his deference to people of all kinds, walked over to the both of them as I stopped, and he leaned against James’s leg while Jacquelyn, petting his head and stroking his ears, told him what a good boy he was. He’s not, really—more mischievous and conniving than previous dogs I’ve had, but he’s a jolly little dude suffering, at times, an excess of personality. I was set to say my goodbyes, but they asked if I was walking “this way,” around the lake, and though I wasn’t, I didn’t particularly care about changing direction. So, off we four set around the lake together making easy conversation, me about my favorite subjects, my wife and my daughter and of course, our recently passed though much beloved dog, Simon. James and Jacquelyn had recently lost their dog, Regina (the “g” sounds like an “h”), an English Shepherd of 17 years, and we shared memories of our late dogs, and condoled each other’s stories.
I was struck by the nature of ease with which this past week has introduced people to me along the walk I take each day, and how I’ve met people with such kindness in them, and stories of lives lived through some wonderful, uplifting and delightful events. They shared sadnesses, too—we all must do at times. But I can’t help but feel our paths crossed at a moment when all of us look over the waste of the past three years and reach out to each other for more community, more shared story, empathy, grief, faith, and even cling to each other’s bits of loves and beauties remembered.
I do have things to do today, but none so pressing that I cannot stop and talk with new friends and spend an extra mile or so on the trail to commune with people in a way that feels perhaps, more urgent now. I moved here two years ago this month, and Nick Carraway-like when he moved to West Egg and met Gatsby, after giving directions to some lost locals, I felt myself a trail-guide to lifelong residents who just needed a little direction. In providing it along with a little of my time, I felt connected again, bonded in a way I had not before. I’m grateful it happened—and I’m better for it, I suppose.
The anomalous days of walking are fewer than the perfunctory, and that’s as it should be. I don’t want revelations each time I haul out the dog leash, but it is nice to know that they happen, and that they’re unpredictable, luring me to another morning along a trail with the weather watching, and the mischievous mutt sniffing, and a light tune lifted off a distant cloud buzzing through my brain. Those moments are glorious, and not easily forgotten.
Onward.
It's good to be retired.