last night
We dive into the bedtime routine: I feed the cats while Jason gets Shorty harnessed for his walk. I pull a hat over my head, wrap my enormous scarf around my neck, fight the usual fight against my coat zipper, grab a flashlight. I hear Shorty drinking and his collar jangling. I insert my foot into Sunny’s line of vision: a preemptive strike to keep her from eating Abby’s food. I hear Shorty shaking himself off; Abby’s cue to stop eating and guard herself from his presence, a task she performs so well that Shorty is now afraid of her.
Jason and Shorty emerge. I take the leash as Jason puts on his own shoes and coat. I open the deck door and prepare for Shorty to propel himself off the deck to chase the inevitable rabbit. Tonight the yard is empty, dark clouds visible in the city skyline.
Normally Jason walks Shorty and I hold the flashlight and have poop duty. But tonight I walk him; he is springy in his step, sproinging along the road hurriedly. As we round the block, the wind kicks in. It is, as Minnesotans say ironically, a bit brisk. Shorty starts to run. He loves running and will sometimes run so fast in the yard he’ll trip over himself and roll like a ball. He looks back, seeing if we’re keeping up. I start running with him, smiling at his little legs churning blurrily. He sprints faster, and now we are laughing. My crazy-sounding giggles echo loudly in the darkness, and the sight of Shorty’s little butt running full-tilt to the stoplight makes me laugh even louder. I am sprinting to keep up with him as he pulls me along, my little knee-high sled dog. “Mush!” I cry hysterically, as Shorty puts on another burst of speed, his ears flapping in the breeze. We come to a stop at the end of the block. Shorty’s tongue is wagging and our cheeks are flushed with the cold. We are out of breath but still smiling like fools.
“Good walk, buddy,” we tell him, as he prances up our driveway.
So far, it’s been my favorite.
