When we arrive at the parking lot, there are two other cars arriving at the same time. One occupant is a confident young woman who opens her door and starts to tie her running shoes. The other occupants are a middle-aged couple with a small pug on leash. A gate marks the entrance to the trail along the lake, and we all cross the starting line at the same time.
I have only one agenda item for the walk this morning:
Get exercise.
My golden retriever has two items on her agenda for this walk:
Sniff and swim.
But because she spent her first two years kept in a kennel and not able to make any decisions for herself, when our goals are at odds, I am committed to letting her lead, and I follow.
By the time we get to the turn of her favorite swimming hole only thirty yards from the parking lot, the young woman who runs is long gone, and the couple with the small pug is probably a quarter a mile ahead. We are already far behind because the intoxicating ground and foliage need intense nose-focused investigation.
When we finally get to the edges of the lake, I have one item on my agenda:
Stay and watch her swim for a really long time.
She has one item on her agenda:
Swim until some scent appears on the breeze and then immediately leave.
I think this is why many people get frustrated with taking dogs on walks - dogs have an insatiable desire to sniff. They interpret the world through their noses, and the tiniest whiff of a scent produces a dead stop or a quick turnaround to go investigate completely.
Other people on the trail progress much more quickly than I do regardless of their age or the breed of dog they walk with probably because they are more interested in getting somewhere in a timely fashion.
I am not one of those people.
Even before I had a dog, I used to wonder if I was a slow walker. But now I think the reason the sniff walk never bothers me is because I am a human golden retriever, except the sensory organs I use are not smell, but sight and sound.
I hear an unusual bird call, and I am overcome with a desire to know what bird makes that noise, and so I stop and turn on my bird identifier and listen. I watch the recording waves and wonder if I could score a bird symphony.
I notice how the light filters through the branches of an evergreen drooping over the still waters of the lake as fish ripples expand. I stop and wonder what kind of fish it is, and I think about how the ripples look like a watery prayer labyrinth and wonder if the dragonflies pray there.
As a result, today I have not yet walked a half a mile. The girl on a morning run has passed me three times. The people with the small dog are on their way back to the car. They stop to admire my dog’s beautiful golden eyelashes and her calm demeanor, and I explain that her nickname is The Philosopher. She is a thinker – not a doer.
But I think that describes us both.
We are not slow. We are curious.
We are not unfocused. We are just unconcerned about getting to a destination.
And we choose to make every slow step an embrace of wonder and every pause a prayer.
