It was supposed to be a nice walk. Those were the exact words I said as I reached for the leashes. “Come on, guys. We’re just going for a nice walk.” Looking back, I realize this was arrogant. You should never announce your plans in front of dogs. They hear optimism and immediately interpret it as a challenge.
I have three dogs, which means I technically have three domesticated animals but functionally operate a small, poorly managed circus. Getting ready for a walk begins with the leashes, and the instant I touch them, everyone loses their minds. Five seconds earlier, all three dogs can be completely unconscious. One will be upside down on the couch with all four legs in the air, another will be snoring, and the third will have entered such a deep sleep that I occasionally check for breathing. Then comes the tiny click of a leash being picked up, and suddenly everyone is an Olympic athlete.
There is jumping, spinning, barking and sneezing. One dog runs to the door. Another runs in the opposite direction for reasons known only to her. The third begins making a noise that sounds like a tea-kettle experiencing emotional distress. I tell everyone to calm down, which is adorable because nobody has ever calmed down after being told to calm down.
I attempt to attach the first leash. The dog spins. I tell her to stop. She spins again. I tell her to stop again. She spins faster. Apparently, we’re drilling for oil now. Eventually, through some combination of patience, determination and profanity muttered quietly under my breath, everyone is connected.
I open the front door, and all three dogs immediately attempt to exit through the exact same six-inch section of doorway. We become a knot. There are dog legs, my legs, leashes and tails. Nobody knows whose body parts belong to whom anymore, but somehow we make it outside.
For approximately thirty-seven seconds, everything is beautiful. The sun is shining, birds are singing and all three dogs are walking nicely beside me. I actually have the audacity to think, This is lovely.
That was my second mistake.
Dog Number One sees a squirrel.
Her entire body freezes. Her ears shoot up, and her soul appears to leave this dimension. Without thinking, I whisper, “Squirrel.”
The other two dogs immediately start looking around.
Why did I say it out loud? I have betrayed myself.
The squirrel runs. Dog Number One launches. Dog Number Two launches because Dog Number One launched. Dog Number Three has absolutely no idea what’s happening but launches because apparently this is a team-building exercise. I am pulled forward so quickly that for a moment my feet are merely a formality.
The squirrel climbs a tree. All three dogs stare upward. The squirrel stares downward. I can feel the disrespect radiating from that tree.
Dog Number One begins barking. The squirrel does not care. In fact, I’m fairly certain the squirrel is enjoying this. I tell the dogs to leave it. They ignore me. I say it louder. Still nothing. Finally, I pull out a treat, and suddenly the squirrel ceases to exist.
Amazing. Thousands of years of predator instinct defeated by a tiny piece of lamb-flavored mystery meat.
We continue walking.
Two minutes later, Dog Number Two stops to smell a blade of grass. Not an area of grass. One specific blade. Apparently, this blade contains the complete historical record of every animal that has visited the neighborhood since 1847.
I wait patiently for a while before asking, “Finished?”
No.
Still sniffing.
“Any breaking news?”
More sniffing.
“Did somebody win an election?”
Apparently, the investigation is ongoing.
Dog Number One becomes impatient while Dog Number Three walks around me. Her leash wraps around my legs, so I step over it. She immediately reverses direction and wraps me again. Dog Number One spots something across the street and pulls toward it just as Dog Number Two finally finishes reading the grass newspaper and decides to move forward.
I nearly fall into a hedge.
A woman across the street witnesses the entire thing.
I pretend it was intentional.
We continue.
Then we encounter another dog. It is approximately four blocks away, but my dogs see it immediately. Of course they do. They can’t find a treat sitting directly in front of their noses, but apparently they can detect a Labrador in another postal code.
All three stop. The other dog stops. The other owner and I make eye contact. This is the moment when both humans silently calculate whether our respective animals are capable of behaving like functioning members of society.
The woman smiles and calls, “Friendly?”
I look down at my three dogs. One is vibrating. One is staring intensely into the distance. The third has somehow acquired a leaf on her forehead.
“Emotionally complicated,” I answer.
She laughs, and we cross the street.
Crisis avoided.
Then Dog Number Three decides to poop.
Naturally, she chooses someone’s immaculate front lawn. Not near the sidewalk, of course. She walks as far onto the property as the leash allows and begins circling.
And circling.
And circling.
“Please,” I say.
Another circle.
“Just pick a location.”
Circle.
“We’re not buying property.”
Finally, she assumes the position.
At that exact moment, the homeowner comes outside.
Of course he does.
“Morning!” I say brightly.
I don’t know why I’m cheerful. I am standing on the sidewalk holding three dogs while one of them is actively defecating on this man’s lawn.
“Morning,” he replies.
We both pretend this is a completely normal social interaction.
I pull out a poop bag. It refuses to open. I rub the edges together. Nothing. I try again. Still nothing. Eventually, I lick my fingers and try once more.
The homeowner is still standing there.
Why is he still there?
Go inside, sir. Please allow me to experience this privately.
Finally, the bag opens. I bend down to clean up just as Dog Number One sees another squirrel. She pulls, my arm jerks, and I nearly fall face-first into the very situation I am attempting to collect.
“NOT TODAY!”
The homeowner laughs.
Wonderful.
I’m entertainment now. I clean everything up, tie the bag and stand. My dignity is gone, but the mission has been accomplished. So we continue down the street until Dog Number Two suddenly stops. She has found something on the sidewalk and is chewing.
“What do you have?”
She chews faster.
“What is it?”
Faster.
“DROP IT.”
This phrase causes dogs to immediately attempt to swallow whatever they have discovered. I reach toward her mouth. She dodges me.
“What are you eating?”
I finally pry her mouth open and discover a piece of bread. Why is there bread on the sidewalk? Who is distributing street bread?
I remove it from her mouth. She looks devastated. Apparently, I have just destroyed her only chance at happiness.
We continue.
A few minutes later, a plastic grocery bag blows across the sidewalk. Dog Number One jumps sideways. Dog Number Two jumps because Dog Number One jumped. Dog Number Three decides jumping looks fun and joins in.
I am suddenly standing in the middle of three terrified animals confronting a plastic bag.
“It’s a BAG.”
The bag moves.
Everyone retreats.
“Seriously?”
The bag catches on a shrub. My dogs stare at it suspiciously. I can practically hear their thoughts.
We saved her.
“Yes,” I tell them. “Very brave.”
At this point, our peaceful walk has become a hostage negotiation. My shoulder hurts. My hair is stuck to my face. I’m carrying a warm bag of poop. One dog is panting, one is searching for additional street bread, and one keeps checking behind us in case the plastic bag has reinforcements.
Then I see it.
Home.
Beautiful, wonderful home.
We’re almost there.
Hope returns.
And then a rabbit appears directly in front of us.
The rabbit freezes.
My dogs freeze.
I freeze.
Nobody moves.
“Don’t.”
Three sets of ears rise.
“Don’t you dare.”
The rabbit twitches.
“Rabbit, I swear to God, read the room.”
The rabbit runs.
Chaos erupts.
All three dogs launch simultaneously. I brace myself as my shoes slide across the pavement. One leash wraps around my wrist. Another goes between my legs. For one terrifying moment, I am essentially waterskiing down the sidewalk without water, skis or adequate insurance.
“STOP!”
Miraculously, they stop.
Not because they listened to me, obviously.
The rabbit disappeared beneath a fence.
I stand there breathing heavily while the dogs look absolutely thrilled with themselves.
Best. Walk. Ever.
We finally reach the house. I open the front door, and everyone charges inside. I remove the leashes, and all three dogs immediately collapse onto the floor as though they have just returned from an expedition across the Arctic.
One rolls onto her side and releases a long, dramatic sigh.
I stare at her.
“You were the problem.”
She closes her eyes. Within two minutes, all three dogs are asleep. I remain standing in the hallway holding the bag of poop that I forgot to put in the outside bin. My hair looks like I’ve been electrocuted, my shoulder hurts, and there is something wet on my shirt. I don’t know what it is, and at this stage of the day, I don’t want to know.
Then my fitness tracker buzzes. Congratulations! You’ve completed 12 active minutes.
Twelve.
I stare at the watch in disbelief. “That was three years.”
I dispose of the poop, make myself a coffee and collapse onto the couch. Peace settles over the house. The dogs are sleeping. Nobody is chasing wildlife. Nobody is eating mysterious sidewalk food. Nobody is trying to drag me into a hedge. Then one dog wakes up.
She walks over and places her head on my knee. Her tail begins wagging.
“Aww,” I say.
Then she looks toward the front door.
I know that look.
Absolutely not.
“We just went.”
Her tail wags harder.
“No.”
She walks toward the leashes.
The other two dogs wake up.
Suddenly, all three are standing by the door staring at me expectantly.
Apparently, they’re ready for another walk.
I take a slow sip of coffee and stare back at them.
“You can poop in the house.”
Sometimes you just have to know when you’ve been defeated.
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