Walkies
Yesterday I took Boris for a walk. People have been telling me I should do this ever since I decided that our relationship was secure enough that I could start introducing him to my friends. They are all concerned that he never seems to escape the confines of the house and ‘garden’, and must frolic fatly amongst the flowers that line the concrete driveway. I think they also see his mournful, hopeful eyes, and think that all he really wants is a chance to see the outside world, briefly, before he keels over from excitement.
So, yesterday evening, when it became apparent that the heavens were not going to open, I clipped on a borrowed lead, and dragged him out of the gate. We stopped to chat to David, the security guard next door, who asked me where I was taking the dog. As Boris wound the lead tightly around my ankles in confusion, I responded that I was going to take him for a walk. I’m not sure how much of the sentence he managed to catch, as I had to twirl around several times while talking to ensure the continuation of the flow of blood to my feet.
‘You are not afraid of the guns?’
‘No’, I said. I mean, I am, obviously afraid of men with guns, but I would be surprised if any jumped out at me in broad daylight on a quiet residential street. ‘Should I be?’
‘Well, sometimes it can be dangerous, but I think maybe if they see you have a dog, they will be scared.’
We looked doubtfully at the dog, as he lay, belly up, little legs waving hopefully, his eyes imploring us to stroke his stomach.
I bid David goodbye, dragged Boris from his prone position, and resolutely set off, convinced that I was going to have to drag him the whole way. I had underestimated him. He set off down the road at speed, almost yanking my shoulder out of its socket. As we sped down the hill, a million neighbourhood dogs howled in our wake.
I can just tell that dog walking is going to be a challenge.