We walk the dogs at 5:30 in the morning.
I’ll allow that to sink in for a minute.
5:30. In the A of M.
So. Stinking. Early.
Hard to say what’s worse — that bitter time of day when the sun doesn’t dare rise or the biting temperatures that beg water pipes to burst. We should probably call it a dead heat. They’re both super sucky.
Seriously, how do dog-owning apartment dwellers who live in snowy places deal with it?
In an ideal world, we’d squeeze in a walk during the warmth of daylight, but in an attempt to dampen their destructo-dog tendencies, we have had to tire the pawsse out ASAP. Remember that dog Marley? Our dogs, combined, are like Super Marley. They would turn up their noses at his amateur antics. So rookie league.
The cable box — and the important wiring inside — is their favorite toy. The sod that once graced our yard? What a thoughtful gift — luxurious padding for their paws as they attempt to tunnel their way to freedom. My beloved ottoman? Like a yummy reverse Tootsie Pop — squishy and lickable on the outside, hard ‘n’ crunchy on the inside! Irrigation tubing? Chewy AND delicious!
No, the walk cannot wait. That’s what they’re conditioned to expect. Remember Pavlov’s dogs? Yeah, so they drooled a little in anticipation of food. Ours have a much more dramatic response to their beloved top-o-the-morning walk, which they demand as soon as our two-legged feet touch the carpet.
One makes this weird half-howl noise that sounds eerily like someone talking. Pretty sure she’s dropping F-bombs while urging us to put those leashes on faster.
Their tails thwap the walls hard enough to leave dirt smudges and chip paint. They jump — on us, on each other, and then they get all bent about landing in each other’s personal space. It’s like the canine version of that popular kid game “Quit touching me! I said QUIT TOUCHING ME!”
Skipping the walk is so not an option.
In a very weird, twisted way, it — the walk, not all the doggie theatrics that lead up to it — is kind of ... enjoyable. While it’s too early for the husband and me to string together words into coherent sentences, sometimes we’re able to have the kind of grownup conversation we like to have without our ever-present kids eavesdropping, such as who’s currently in the running for favorite offspring. Mostly, though, we walk in silence, listening to the comforting sounds of the neighborhood — the hooting of that giant owl that lives behind our house, a pool pump sucking air, a donkey braying. No joke. A donkey.
I wear my pajamas because I have no shame and, anyway, those Wonder Woman pjs are layered under a sweater and a jacket, since it’s usually 29 degrees this time of year, so honestly it doesn’t matter that I’m not all Lululemoned*-up for any passing cars.
But 15 minutes and one full, plastic bag later — honestly, dogs, THAT’S how you show your appreciation? — we’re home, noses and eyes running, fingers on fire as they thaw.
Just like anything you don’t want to do, the morning walk feels good once it’s over. And who knows, maybe we saved an innocent piece of furniture’s life. We can only hope.
