In an unsettled life, routines are crucial. And nothing says "routine" quite like the presence of a dog.
During my childhood, we never had a dog. Indeed, I was somewhat afraid of them. It wasn't until I was in my thirties and scrambling for extra income that I took up house-sitting and pet-sitting, and discovered that many dogs had a thing for me and vice versa. I developed loose attachments to most of them, but when the owners came back and the gig was over, I usually moved on quite easily.
COVID-year gave me time to create a solid routine and friendship with a 14-year-old cocker spaniel. Our daily schedule undoubtedly says more about his passion for food than his passion for me! He scratches on my door ridiculously early in the morning. If it is after 5 AM, I let him in, hug him, and give him a few tiny treats. Then he goes back to his dog bed for 45 minutes or an hour, returning again when it is time to eat. It truly seems like he has an inner alarm clock that announces 6 AM, breakfast time. I throw on some clothes, and walk out to the kitchen, doggie underfoot. He scarfs up breakfast and then, at this time of year, we go out immediately for his first walk.
Over the course of the day, we take three to four modest walks, the equivalent of perhaps four to six city blocks. (This is the perfect dog for me. In dog years, he is approximately my age, and he's nearly completely blind and deaf. I could never manage a big, two-mile walker!) His sense of smell remains strong, so he has to stop and sniff at absolutely everything en route, many more stops at this time of year than there were in frigid mid-winter! This dog and I have absolutely no sense of how to walk properly, and I often hope that no one is watching us. Forget "heel" or loose-leash walking. He zigs and zags right in front of me, following odors that I cannot smell. Increasingly, he's completely unaware of dogs being walked on the other side of the street, but he'll give a yelp when he senses an animal within about four feet of us, like the bunny "statues" in the neighborhood. (These rabbits, sensing that we are coming near, stiffen up, trying to go unnoticed.)
I've come to recognize the moment when he is squatting down to do his business, even though he gives no real warning. I rip off the little bag and swoop in to grab whatever is there. He's probably the only dog in the neighborhood who is addressed in French. When we get to the trash bin, I say, "Attendez!", and even though I'm sure he can't hear me, he's learned to wait while I open up the top and toss the bag (or bags) in. Once we are back in the house, I give him another small treat, and he goes back to sleep. In-between walks, he sometimes lies down under my feet or at my door. When I make dinner, he remains inconveniently underfoot, hoping that a morsel of carrot or meat will make its way to the floor. When his real owners are away, he sticks to me like glue.
I have half-jokingly told friends that it took me 65 years, but I am finally in love. I try to convince myself that he's only in it for the food and walks, but I think, under the surface, there is at least a little residual dog love there too. He seeks me out. And for me, the rituals go far beyond food and exercise. (Obviously, I don't join in the dog food feast!) But I love the structure he brings. I love finding out that I am capable of love. I call him silly little names. I lose myself in his big limpid (although paradoxically, cataract-covered) eyes, and find his presence a comfort. Our shared routines will likely come to an end in a few weeks, and in earlier years, I would have been battening down my emotional hatches to try to prevent heartbreak. Today, sensitive to the power of words, I'll try hard not to see it as any kind of break. I'll keep "him" with me as I move forward, so thankful for how he has opened, not broken, my heart.
