Dog Turns Noontime Ritual into a Walk on the Wild Side
/The Boston Herald
It's noon and it's raining and the dog wants to go for a walk, but I do not.
I tell her I'm not going. "No walk today, girl. It's too awful outside."
But she will have none of this. She's pacing and prancing and moaning and groaning and all but pointing to the ticking clock in the front hall.
It has just chimed, one, two, all the way to 12 and Molly, who doesn't know what "Get off the couch this instant" means and who can't even process the one-syllable word down, knows exactly what time it is.
Molly can count. Go figure. Every day at 11 a.m., the clock chimes and she lies there on the floor, out cold, snoring like a baby. But come 12, she's up and at 'em, and at me, nudging, yelping, acting as if she's on fire, insisting that I stop what I'm doing and go outside right now.
Even those times when she's sprawled on the back porch or in the back yard asleep under her tree, 50 yards and a couple of storm windows removed from the clock, she somehow hears it chime 12 and comes running.
This day, however, I resolve to ignore her. I am not going to walk you in the freezing, pouring rain. I am not giving in, I say.I want you to go and lie down.
She disregards my words, my tone, my mood, my unflappable firmness and leaps on my lap, knocking a pile of papers off the computer with her tail. She then proceeds to tread all over them.
I am not going, I repeat.I don't care what you do. And I don't care how much noise you make.
But it's no use. She is a wild woman, volume cranked up to 10, tail wagging faster than an Olympic runner sprints, insistent that I get up off my chair and take her for a walk, no matter what the weather.
Which, of course, I eventually do. I get my coat, my hat, my winter boots, my scarf and gloves, her collar and leash, plus a Milk Bone for the road. And all the while I'm doing this, talking to her, telling her, OK, You win," she's getting louder and wilder until she's like a vortex, running around in circles, practically sucking all the air right out of the room.
It's part of the ritual. There are days she comes close to turning into butter by the time I put on her leash and she drags me out the door. But the thing is, it works. She throws a fit and I respond. Rain. Snow. Ice. Freezing cold. Sickness. Disability. It doesn't matter. When Molly wants to walk, we walk.
We started this supposed-to-be-good-for-you habit two years ago, when she was 5. Al said: "You need to walk that dog. She needs to lose some weight."
I had tried walking her a hundred times before, but it always ended up that she was walking me. I'd try and quit. Try and quit.
This time I studied Al. I watched how he walked Dante every day, twice a day. He made it look easy. He pulled on the leash and Dante slowed down. He said, "Heel," and Dante heeled. He said, "This way Dante,' and Dante went that way.
I figured, OK, I'll do what Al does. I said, "Good dog" and "Best dog" and "That's my puppy. Heel now, sweetie." But there was always a tree Molly had to sniff or a person she had to run and greet and it was always Molly pulling me down the street no matter how I cajoled or ordered.
So I gave up and Molly got fat , and then I started again and Molly learned to tell time.
I've tried not winding the clock and you know what? She knows when it's noon anyway. Daylight Savings Time? No problem. She is Greenwich Mean Time in my own front hall.
"Come here, Molly," I call and she doesn't move off the couch.
"Stop barking, Molly. It's Dad," I say when my husband pulls into the garage. But every night she barks as if he's the Boston Strangler.
"Down," I shout every time anyone comes to the house. But she doesn't get it. She jumps right up on them no matter what.
Except if it's noon. Then it's a different story. Then she can be found in the front hall, chasing her tail, panting at the clock, barking for her leash, her Milk Bone and me.
