Walking My Dog
Daniel Pinkwater
Picture me, the driven snow stinging my face, swathed in Gore-Tex and goose down, hatted, mittened, my Vibram soles crunching the snow underfoot, my noble sled dog ahead, breaking the trail—sort of a fat Sergeant Preston of the Yukon. Now zoom out, and see that the noble sled dog is Juno, a Malamute puppy, and this trek is taking place in the cobblestone plaza outside the Erie Lackawanna railroad station in Hoboken, New Jersey, 35 years ago. After maybe an hour of stomping around in the snow, we're going to go upstairs for a hot coffee and a Milk-Bone.
In time, Juno and I extended our walks to sections of the Appalachian Trail in nearby New York. Walking with something so tireless, and so capable of switching into 4-wheel-drive, was humbling and gave me perspective.
Juno recorded everything on a kind of permanent brain-map. Coming back to the same place a year or more later, she would insist on retracing our exact steps—if we had gone around a big rock on the east side last time, that was how we had to go around it this time.
She was friendly to hikers we met on the trail during the day, but at night was ready to scare the hell out of anyone or anything that came close to our campsite. Raccoons were sent scurrying, and she impressed me with an instinctive technique of chasing a skunk out of camp. (You do it slowly, and never close the distance between you).
Walking with a dog—with the right dog—gives me an enhanced point of view. It informs me that in addition to what I can see, hear and smell, and in addition to things I might notice only if the dog were there to direct my attention, there is a whole category, completely beyond me, of things the dog can observe and I cannot.
Juno is long gone, and my present companion is Lulu, a genuine Inuit Sled Dog from Baffin Island, conceived on the ice, suckled on mother's milk tasting of seal oil. In terms of perfection of design, she surpasses Juno. This critter is the real deal, right down to the tip of her bushy tail. She, too, can see things too small or too far away for me to see, but, unlike Juno, Lulu takes none of it seriously. Weather not apt to kill you is vacation weather, and a day on which you are not eaten by a polar bear is a good day. Life amuses Lulu.
Our walks for the past 10 years have been in the beautiful and park-like grounds of the Vanderbilt National Historic Site in Hyde Park, N.Y. There are natural wonders to be seen: the blue Catskills across the Hudson, Canada geese, hawks, deer, wild turkeys, occasionally an eagle, and once a pileated woodpecker. There is a bear known to winter at the Vanderbilt, though we have yet to spot him.
Believe me, I understand that these outings are not quite the same as a trek through the Bob Marshall Wilderness in Montana. But there are all kinds of ways to get up close and personal with nature, ranging from a hike in “the Bob” to sitting in your kitchen watching mourning doves on a branch outside your window freak when they suddenly notice that a large hawk has just joined them. Our walks are somewhere on that continuum.
So what attracts Lulu's attention on these rambles? She notes wild fauna casually. Other dogs are of interest to her if they are 1) fellow northern wolf-spitz varieties, in which case there is conversation in the mother-tongue, or 2) small and cute. German shepherds and boxers get hardly a glance, but Yorkies, small poodles, and her favorite, the papillon, excite her considerably. I don't know for sure if she wants to play with them, adopt them, or eat them.
What Lulu really likes about our walks is meeting humans. On her native ground, Lulu would have been viewed in a strictly utilitarian way, worked hard, fed little, and shot around the age of four when the life had worn her down—after that she might have been lining for a parka or mittens. But, like others of her kind I've known, she has a real affection and enthusiasm for the very species that exploited her ancestors. She talks to walkers she meets, entices them to stop and admire her, plays up to them. People take her picture. And she makes the day of many a child. She's good at overcoming shyness and fear. And in the case of a kid immobile in a wheelchair the other day, she laid her great wolf-like head against his chest, and radiated love. Just one more thing you can learn by walking with a dog.
Daniel Pinkwater is the author of more than 100 books, mostly for children, and is a regular commentator on National Public Radio.
