To Maggie,
At the very end of our walks, I am usually far more forgiving about your incessant need to stop and individually sniff every blade of grass that may have been tread upon by another canine because I know you’re getting in ‘last sniffs’ before we get home. But yesterday, when you paused at the corner, I yanked your leash. Even as I did it I felt terrible because as we were strolling along, I had let myself ruminate on a person who has betrayed me and that yank was exerted with the force of my wishful retaliation. If I had punctuated that sudden jerk of your leash with a word, it would have been this person’s name and it would have sounded like I was growling it while punching this person in the stomach.
But even though I interrupted your sniffing, you followed so obediently and looked at me with woeful eyes that said, “I’m sorry, you’re right, let’s hurry back home where I will share my liver treats with you and protect you from any friend who turns on you ever again.” And ten seconds later, when I stopped to shake a pebble out of my shoe, you sat patiently, gazing back over your shoulder as if to say, “take your time, I’m ready when you are,” even though I really would have deserved it if you had kept right on walking, pulling me over as I tried to balance on one foot with the other sneaker in my hand.
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