If dogs could name streets, we’d have Squirrel Bully-vards and Crabapple Courts
What if we created neighborhood Google Maps for dogs and their leash holders, with renamed streets and green spaces? This thought occurred to me while walking our youngest grand dog, Bandit. He stayed with us for five weeks while his canine brother, Sheriff, recovered from leg surgery at home.
Many times, Bandit informed me we live squarely on Squirrel Bully-vard. It’s where the twitchy gray critters taunted him with their tree branch trapeze acts and quick, just-out-of-reach low trunk appearances. He never gave up trying to catch these rascals. I admired, and dreaded, his perseverance.
The main drag around the corner from us is Pilates Place, where Bandit pulled the leash and my muscles in a zoomy zigzag pattern. It was here I realized Bandit is more of a free-roaming fenced backyard pet than a calm, public walking companion. The problem is we do not have a fence. The solution was I built a strengthened core almost overnight.
My furry grand is young, highly distractible and 75 pounds. I’m only borderline sturdy enough for his enthusiasm. His constant pulling, with strong bursts of yanking, meant late February and all of March were an entertainment bonanza for my neighbors. Comedy cul de sacs everywhere. Over the weeks I went from landing on my rear in the snow to sloshing in heavy rainstorms to dodging blooming hyacinths, all with a taut strip of nylon between us and disaster.
Minor fiascoes ensued. The imaginary Google Bark Maps indicated a mere block into our daily routine was the inescapable Robin Road. From a dog’s eye view, birds were basically squirrels with wings. They lollygagged around with their daydreams and worm shopping until the last minute, and then took off when Bandit got too close. As with the squirrels, the robins were always inches out of reach.
What’s that Emily Dickinson poem? “’Hope’ is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul…”
But we had more anxious adventures beyond drenching rains and humiliating human snow flops. One day we unwittingly took a turn onto Loose Dog Lane. Either a stray or an escaped German Shepard-y breed appeared at a corner, just out of Bandit’s sight thanks to a parked car. Had it been a poodle or a pup under 30 pounds, I would not have panicked. But this lone, toothy creature was large. I froze behind the car with oblivious Bandit, until I decided to pivot and run us between nearby houses before both dogs spotted each other.
It was strange to weave myself and Bandit through others’ side yards and backyards. However, one must do what one must do to avoid a potential disaster. Trespass or perish. I experienced adrenaline-infused math: two big dogs, one leash and an amateur human are not a good formula. We ended up taking a mile-plus detour to get back home. And yes, once we were safe I called animal control about the stray.
Am I cut out for this big dog life? Probably not. Would I have traded these glorious winter-into-spring weeks with my crazy, sweet sidekick? Never.
I wouldn’t even trade The Horrible Rainy Night of Crabapple Court, when we skirted a tree on a median that had produced some cherry-sized droppings, one of which Bandit might have dashed over, scooped up and swallowed. Did he? Didn’t he? He’s so fast and sneaky. Maybe he just sniffed the ground?
I took a mental note of the tree’s global position, brought doggie home and went back out solo armed with an umbrella and a flashlight. I picked up the possible crabapples from the base of the tree to compare online with pictures of real crabapples, which, I learned, can be poisonous to dogs. Long story short, after much research and handwringing, all was OK. The excessive worry, I later realized, was rooted in love.
Unlike the fictitious streets on my imaginary map, Bandit is appropriately named: he stole my heart. This unexpected dog-watching gig turned out to be the road best traveled.
Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com
