Walking With the Wonder Dog
When I left Arkansas to move north, I took Tootsie the Wonder Dog away from the absolute freedom she’d had for the bulk of her decade on this planet. No fences, chains, or rules. She roamed the woods and hunted at will: Deer, armadillos, groundhogs, moles, voles, and more.
If she was trailing a critter when I clanged a metal pot with a spoon to call her home for her evening treat—the only signal that moved her with any regularity—she ignored the summons until the hunt was complete. Indoors she obeyed the people rules (for the most part). Outside was her territory—my word held no sway.
It was hard for me to uproot her, knowing that she would roam no more. I repeatedly asked her what she wanted—to be with me, or to remain near the woods—but never got a concrete answer. So I brought her to Michigan. In her new home, she still has a dog flap that allows her to go in and out at will, but she is now confined to the house and a fenced backyard. If we leave the property, she is on a leash.
I promised her I’d walk her every day, and I’ve kept that promise. Usually twice a day. (We’ve missed one day in 5 months due to torrential rain.) In the summer and fall, we walked along Lake Michigan every day. Now that the coastline isn’t so dependably accessible, we walk the streets of our neighborhood, even when the snow is deeper than my boots.
She has learned to follow the subtle signals of the leash—although there are moments when she rebels and pulls in the opposite direction or simply lays down and refuses to follow my lead. I then commiserate with her about the people rules, and eventually she gives in, and follows me without complaint.
And now it turns out I owe Tootsie a debt of gratitude. Not just for being my best friend, but for getting me out of the house on a daily basis. I don’t always feel like walking in single digit temperatures, but I go because I promised I would. And being outdoors twice a day, admiring the snowdrifts, watching squirrels race along snow-covered branches, and analyzing the flowery footprints of turkeys that roam the neighborhood does something to my spirit. Something essential that wouldn’t happen if I stayed holed up inside. I sense it. I sometimes even put it into words: “Let’s go for a walk and clear my head…”
Today I read a Washington Post column that confirmed what I sense. The columnist, Dana Milbank, wrote, “…my days of waiting out winter are over. For me, it is no longer the cold and dark season. It is now the season for rebuilding hope.”
Apparently current research confirms the benefits of being outside are not merely from exercise or breathing fresh air. Milbank writes, “…connection with nature boosts our sense of hope, which in turn predicts long life, ability to achieve goals and other aspects of well-being. This type of hope is very different from optimism: There is no Pollyannaish, everything-will-be-okay element to it; rather, it keeps us from despair and gives us a sense of agency.”
I walk to keep my dog happy. And, unexpectedly, it has changed me. Twice a day, I turn off the relentless mental stream of woulda-shoulda-coulda and gotta, ignore my laptop and phone, and really pay attention to what’s happening outside. It might be only 15 minutes. Or it might be an hour. But, no matter how doubtful I feel when we embark on our walk, I always return home believing in myself.