Author and Artist
A Dog’s Life
A fictional travelogue; three minute read.
Today is an exercise walk day. For Magellan and me.
For Magellan, our walks are hometown sightseeing journeys. Davis, California has miles of greenbelts with 38,465 city-owned trees in need of sniffing.
For him, these mini-vacations are respites from his routine household duties: boisterously barking at any intruder disguised as a mail carrier and holding in place a frayed carpet while snoring at my feet.
For me, Davis is my outdoor gym. I’m out here walking because, while reading my health chart, my doctor frowns a lot. I’d like to ask him why his demeanor sobers me, but I don’t. I’d rather not think about it.
I do want to live at least as long as Magellan.
Magellan and I are best friends. Ignoring my bipedal slowness and feeble jumping abilities, Magellan accepts me as I am. For my part, I politely pretend not to notice his drooling. On our walks, we repeat the same jokes without letting on that both of us know the punchline. If there’s a thing called Doggy Zen, Magellan—always in the moment—is a believer.
His concentration never wanders ahead to tomorrow’s worries or drags behind remembering yesterday’s mistakes. Whether ball chasing or chasing his tail, he’s fiercely focused on being a dog. When we stumble upon a flock of wild turkeys, Magellan clears our way with a frenzied, tireless work ethic.
Magellan delights in loud slurps of cool water. Rudely, he gnaws butcher shop bones without offering me even a small chew. I don’t mind. Seeing him happy makes me happy.
On a balmy Sacramento Valley evening, Magellan has a special fondness for the water sprinklers at Sycamore Park. Even a human nose can smell the mist as the sprinkler heads pulse in continuous rotation. Shush, shuush, shuush. Magellan thinks that snapping at water plumes is hysterically funny. I suspect he performs his vaudevillian slapstick to keep my mind grounded, active, engaged.
On an autumn day before the rains muddy up the dirt backroads and after the summer heat has receded, Magellan runs for hours and hours through groves of towering walnut trees and gnarled olive orchards. Magellan loves smelly old barns, so I wait patiently while he checks them out. Sometimes I think he might be paused just to give me a rest.
Unfailingly, whenever we come to a street crossing, even if the intersection has an electric stop sign, before leaving the curb, Magellan insists that I leash up. If the weather calls for gloves and a woolen scarf, Magellan knows to show up in a fur coat.
I’m lanky with a long, steady stride and usually stay on the foot path. Magellan has a bounding, zigzagging gait. Somehow, we stay connected.
Out beyond the edge of town, rows of corn stand tall, green, lush. Magellan is pretending he’s a big game hunter—stalking the dangerous, elusive, wily jack rabbit. He returns to my side with his tongue hanging out and his tail wagging.
My calves are begging me to sit down. I’m ready to turn back, but Magellan has other ideas. His pleasured, easy panting says he’s in no hurry to head home. Plenty of time in a dog’s life to track another scent or check out the newest gopher hole.
I check my watch.
I’ve missed another cardiologist appointment.
