According to Salad, going for a walk is almost as much fun as digging in fresh mud. Salad is my dog. He's a mid-sized mutt, with some Australian Shepherd and Lab mixed in. I let him in the house, the thin black leash dangling from my fingertips and he goes berserk. His body shakes in anticipation, not just his tail wagging, but the entire back half of his body. I tell him to sit, which he attempts, but the excitement is too much for him to contain, and it take us a moment to get the collar over his floppy ears. He bolts for the door, strangling himself in the process. I grab my keys and follow him. He clotheslines himself again on the porch while I lock up the door.
Salad keeps me going. When I get tired, he pulls me along. His excitement is contagious, although his frequent stops to stiff something or other are difficult, and I trip over the leash more than once. We make the mistake of leaving home just as school is getting out. Our neighborhood is invaded with giant yellow school buses, which, I should have remembered, are terrifying.
Salad cowers each time one drives by, trying fruitlessly to back out of his collar. I try to channel The Dog Whisperer and be the Alpha, and guide him past the steel demons.
Meanwhile, my shins hurt when I run. What is that about and how can I make it stop?
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