Morning walks

I feel Paul's awareness of me as I walk past him to make myself coffee. At 4:30 am, he's half-awake, dreaming perhaps of the adventures he'll have during the day. I'm not sure if dogs dream like us, but I like to think they do. There are times when I'd hear Paul barking quietly, like he's responding to someone in a whisper. His rapid paw movement, his version of stationary somnabulism, generates the reaction in the house that sounds like, "Awww, look at The Other Guy." Paul is so smart I think he understands Hiligaynon. When we need to put a leash around him, we refer to him as The Other Guy and speak to each other quietly, just so he won't know we are out to get him. 

Dogs don't live as long as people do. They don't look forward to anything much except the precious time they spend with their masters. Who Paul's master is depends on the time of day: it used to be Sean, until he went abroad. Then Manong took over the ritual, until a few weeks from now, when he leaves for colder pastures. I realize I'll be the one left to do the dog-walking, a task I don't necessarily consider a chore, but given the emergencies and responsibilities I have at work, it does take a lot of time. It delays my departure significantly. On the average, I've calculated, using data derived from my brothers' experiences, that it takes at least 30 minutes to satisfy Paul's walking needs: enough time to allow him to defecate in his flower bed of choice and to permit interaction with the other dogs in the neighborhood.

 

There are days when walking him is impossible. 

On rainy days he refuses to move. He hates stepping on wet earth. On some days, he escapes our grasp in protest: he is so smart he knows we're planning to shampoo him. He retreats to the garden or hides below the sofa; running after him is frustrating. On busy days, when meetings, patients, and classes inundate me, I would open the gate and let him roam around. Our neighborhood is safe. We don't fear that he'd be dog-napped. Strangers don't find aspins (previously, askals, though we've been told that's no longer politically correct) particularly lucrative. Paul will return after some time, panting, but his joy is inferior. He likes our companionship. He wants us to walk him. He wants to walk with us.