There is something meditative about my morning walk with the
dogs. Chloe, the younger with her black and white Border Collie markings and
her greyhound body, pulling at the leash in my right hand and Dixie, the elder,
with her white ruff giving her the regal look of an Edwardian dowager queen,
lagging behind at my heels pulling on my left arm, I’m sure I resemble one of
those rubber stretch-man toys. But I’ve grown accustomed to the gait. Slower as
we process through the neighborhood, the flip-flap of my Teva sandals (lesbian
shoes my daughters say, but I counter the effect with hot pink toenail polish)
on the pavement putting me in a trance.
What do I
think about on these walks? I wish I knew. I’m sure there is something great
going on in my brain. Big ideas, entire book plots, house remodeling plans,
blueprints for a better world, but I remember nothing by the time I arrive home
and unleash the dogs.
We are all
hot and tired and sweaty and thirsty. The dogs lap greedily at their water bowls.
I pour another cup of coffee. I am calm. I am relaxed. I am ready to face my
day. And I just might recall one of my brilliant thoughts, if I’m lucky.
