Dog Walking

It's time again. Dodger, my two-toned Beagle, doesn't care that it's Christmas Day, that my children are in Pittsburgh with their father, that my true love is far away, that I drank two large glasses of wine last night. All he knows is that outside there is a whole world to smell.

It's a bright, crisp, ear-chilling, snowless Christmas Day. I'm dressed in my oldest, holiest sweat pants and the Navy zipper sweat jacket with the dog-chewed sleeve, my unwashed hair tucked under the hood. So far I've spoken to no one today, other than the dog who twitches his eyebrows and tilts his head at the sound of my voice.

He runs to the end of his leash, to a spot, just there, at the foot of my neighbors mailbox. He snuffles so hard that his nose makes a flapping sound. I try to imagine ever smelling anything that good. He doesn't just sniff the smell -- he absorbs its, frowning with concentration, until he's incorporated it, like a new idea. It's his smell now, locked away in his hound dog brain, filed away with other important smells: the couch where he sleeps, a certain 10 year old girl's face, my white terrycloth bathrobe. Satisfied, he lifts his leg and adds his scent.

We take an unusually long walk because I have vowed not to return until I have improved my frame of mind. We walk far from home, past houses we've never seen. Dodger is thrilled with the new smells. Like an eager student discovering the French poets or the German philosophers, he darts from bush to tree to post, lifting his leg repeatedly leaving a squirt here and a squirt there.

We meet a total of four people and one dog on this walk. A young girl with over-sized glasses out for a solitary Christmas Day bike ride, a girl I am certain is too young to be out alone. I say "Hi," my first words spoken to another person since yesterday, in the liquor store, when I bought the bottle of wine. My voice sounds as small and shy as hers does. Later a woman jogs heavily past. She says hello loudly, and although I answer her, equally loudly, I'm uncertain if she's heard me because of her headphones. Even so, I am feeling a little better. We meet a couple with their son, out walking their large puppy, a handsome black and white dog with smooth, short fur. My full-grown Beagle is less than half his size. Right away the dogs set in to sniffing. They touch noses. No raised back fur. No growling. They have accepted each other immediately on the basis of scent, a notion I find continuously marvelous. I begin to think about returning home. We exchange words about our dogs. They admire my two-toned Beagle, a beautiful little dog that has loved every other dog he's ever met. We wish each other happy holidays and continue in opposite directions.

We have walked so long that Dodger is no longer dashing to the end of his leash but is behaving like the mature, wise dog he will one day be. We walk calmly past houses where families are exchanging presents, eating Christmas breakfast, assembling new toys. My head feels clear at last. Here we are on the porch. Here we are opening the door. Home. The sweet smell of home.