At this time of year, it’s difficult to fit in the last walk of the day.
The days are short. Darkness comes quickly. It takes a long time to get suited up for the outdoors (the brown dog watches the process with patience).
The daily cycle becomes highly condensed. No sooner do we return from the midday walk (which often starts late) eat lunch, clean up, settle in to do some work … and suddenly it’s time to head out again before daylight fades.
I am fortunate. The brown dog keeps me on schedule. She lets me know when walk time draws near. She fusses. She paces. She sits by the desk and stares. She does not give up. As a last resort, she barks.
“Come on,” she says. “It’s getting dark. Time to go!”
I always relent. Eventually. “Okay,” I reply. “We’ll go. But it’ll be quick.”
I get dressed, pull on boots, grab the snowshoes. All the while I am planning a shorter route – one of the nearby loops, long enough to satisfy the brown dog, short enough to get me back. I need to get things done. I need to complete work on the computer, prepare supper, clean up, make a call, fold the laundry. So much to do, so many demands. I need to get back.
We step outside. I strap on the snowshoes. The brown dog eats snow while she waits. Finally I pull on my gloves and give her the signal to go.
We proceed down the trail. The motion of snowshoeing feels good after sitting in front of the computer. The air is clean and fresh. I inhale it in big gulps, glad the brown dog convinced me not to skip the walk.
A light snow has fallen, settling on branches and twigs, outlining the unique pattern of each individual tree. The whole winter wonderland is breathtaking, exquisite. It draws me in, works a magic of sorts, freeing my mind to wander and my body to follow the brown dog without thinking.
Before I know it we have pushed well beyond the nearby loop. The brown dog is leading me down one of the forest trails, and I didn’t even notice. She stops to peer into the trees, sniff at fox tracks, eat some more snow. And I find that I don’t mind at all. I continue to follow, instinctively, willingly. The tasks that were so important not long ago fall further behind with each step we take.
We walk on. Nothing is more important than where we are now. Nothing is more important than what we are doing. Nothing is more important than the air I am breathing, the trees I am touching, the completeness I am feeling. The brown dog stops a few steps ahead of me, looks over her shoulder, fixes me with bright eyes.
“See?” she says. “Now you know why we are here.” The forest appears to sigh right then, settle a little further into darkness, in seeming accord . The brown dog turns her head back to the trail, eats some more snow, and walks on. Obedient, I follow.
