Chevy Brown Takes a Walk

When I say my dog, Chevy, is old, I mean he is ancient. Old like that piece of cheese that is shoved deep in the back of the dairy drawer of your fridge sort of old. Wizened and dry. On a typical day, Chevy can be found lazing about in the family's communal sock bin. He sleeps the way he lives, utterly unaffected by his surroundings.

Some mornings, however, I wake up to find my ancient man-dog with a bit of a pep in his step and asking to be taken for a walky.

"Oh, look at you, my furry friend! You're feeling up to a walk today."

Today was one of those mornings, and I was delighted to take my doggo on a stroll through the park.

We came upon one stretch of pathway that was being saturated with water from the in-ground sprinklers. I considered turning back to find an alternate route, but I figured that the dog and I could run under the arching water flow and get to the other side generally unscathed.

Only part of this was true. We were able to get to the other side; however, the dog got quite wet in the process. This allowed his collar to come loose. Ultimately, giving him the ability to wriggle out of it and escape from the confines of his leash.

There I am, half soaked with an empty dog leash in hand running after my Shih Tzu as I imagine him singing, "freeeeedom, freedom!" In a George Michealian sort of tenor.

"Chevy! Chevy, please come back!" I am yelling, as if he cares even in the slightest that I am regretfully out of shape, winded and making a total fool of myself in front of the other dog walkers. They don't seem to be losing control of their dogs.

Because the dog, who has suddenly become ten years younger and is moving at the pace of an Olympic athlete, will not listen to my pleas, I begin trying to bargain with him.

"Chevy, " I say sternly, "if you let me put your leash back on, I will give you a treat when we get home." I am yelling this as I trail further and further behind him. I know he can hear me though, because at the sound of the word "treat" his ears perk up. Alas, it is not enough to stop his onward quest for independence.

Finally, I get a hold of the small beast and wrangle the collar and leash back on his tiny body. He looks up to me, tail wagging. He is assumedly wondering where next our walky will take us.

I tell my dog, with all the seriousness of a woman who has just spent the last ten minutes running through wet grass and screaming words that seem only to fall on deaf ears that, "I don't think so mister, we are going home! And you are not getting any treats today!"

His eyes continue to pierce into me, tongue lolling out the way pine boughs bow after freshly fallen snow and I say, "Well, maybe just one treat. Let's go home, Chevy Brown. It about time you get you back to your sock basket."

By Lindsay Brown

From: Canada

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