FOR THE DOG

I have no choice but to take up walking again.  I will commit to no less than two miles per day, and not at any old leisurely stroll either – it needs to be a fairly decent pace if it’s going to do any good.  You see, I’ve noticed that the dog is packing on weight.  I’d sure hate to see him get old and fat and lazy.  What I don’t do for that dog.

This weight problem of his has been coming on all year.  That’s how the weight sneaks up on a dog.  You start out all active and bouncy and lithe.  You’re confident in your looks.  You feel healthy and strong.  You may plan for a two milejaunt but somehow the day is so nice you end chasing a few rabbits, dig for a couple gophers, and take a run at a flock of ducks to see how far they will scatter.  Pretty soon you’ve done four miles.  When life is this good, keeping your figure is a piece of cake.  

But then, of course, along comes winter.  Even for a guy who is part husky, forty below is nasty.  Oh sure, he still has to go out every morning, check the boundaries, mark his territory, make sure the local coyotes don’t get to feeling too comfortable, but then it’s back inside, curl up on his matt and watch for anyone who might make a move toward the kitchen.  If there’s a human in the kitchen the chances of treats go up.  If it’s the male human the treats are exponentially better and more plentiful.  The male human seems oblivious of where calories go after they are consumed.  The dog doesn’t care.  I am well aware for all three of us.

Winter lasts a long time in these parts.  The walks become very few and far between.  The trend toward napping in the sunbeams becomes very entrenched.  It’s not that he wouldn’t welcome a walk (he and his arctic fur coat) but motivating me to join him gets harder every year.  I’ve explained to him countless times that he can go explore on his own but it’s like he feels obliged to make sure I get my exercise too.  He won’t leave the yard without me.

Spring – when it finally happens – is also not conducive to walking.  The roads are muddy.  Or icy.  Or both muddy and icy.  And Turbo refuses to wear boots.  Given a warm, melty afternoon outside in March that dog can soak up, conceal, and transport into the house his body weight in sand and silt.  All I have to do is sweep it up, add a little peat moss, and I have enough soil to fill my starter trays for my garden.  During the muddy month of March and all through April’s showers I would just as soon the dog stayed inside.

 One would think that the next half year is perfect walking weather.  It is, of course, but I have other stuff I have to do.  All my walking time and energy is spent out in the garden … weeding, planting, picking, watering, mowing, tilling.  I work in the sun, he lays in the shade.  I dig holes that he gets quite excited about; he digs holes and gets yelled at.  I tell him how good the strawberries taste; he sniffs them, gives me his famous groan of disgust, and looks at me like I’m crazy.  It’s sort of the same reaction I have to finding one of his rotting bones buried in my flower bed. 

Every once in a while I take the quad out for a spin to give him a quick run.  He used to revel in the challenge but lately he’s all about wanting to hop up on the back to ride home.  With a routine like that, it’s no wonder his clothes - ahem, his collar - is getting tight.

So, it’s time to hit the road again.  I am a responsible pet owner and am putting his need for physical activity first.

He just looked over at me and gave me his “You’re pretty hefty yourself these days, lady!” look. 

This just gives me something new to worry about.  He really is getting on in dog years … obviously his eyesight is going on him too!