In step

This afternoon I took a break from work, and Emma and Hunter and I went walking around Cheney Lake. Bright, bracing cold day, temps barely into the teens.

Hunter and I have our hiking pattern established from years of long walks. I keep a constant pace, rarely stopping except for those things I want to stop for, like admiring wildlife, taking photos, soaking in a special moment. Hunter has learned that he can do all his sniffing and p-mailing on his 15-foot leash, bounding around and back, without my changing pace. That's his consideration to me. (Okay, it was taught early on. Well okay, it was actually coerced. But I do think it's very considerate.) In return, of course I stop when he has a different need that requires a longer pause. And the most fun in our walks is the last half of that hour when we are both at brisk pace, he's done fooling around and is out front of me and our minds are both focused on what's ahead.

Emma is a moseyer and it drives both me and Hunter crazy. (Nancy notices a difference when I'm the one walking Emma, because Emma comes back panting!) Emma wants to examine everything, in detail. She examines things that aren't even things. So when she walks with me, there's a lot of me urging her to come on. When she walks with both Hunter and me, there is a constant 30-foot separation between them, with him forged ahead and her fallen back as far as possible, and me in the unenviable middle.

Not today. Emma caught on right away to the plan, and I so enjoyed that lively jaunt around the lake and through the woods in the cold air. We went on high cruise to the point where I had both flexi handles in one hand and kept the other warmly in pocket. No pulling, no tangling, nothing but net.

It came to me that what I most enjoy about walking with dogs where that relationship is developed (compared to starting out with a new doggie friend) is the sense you get of connectedness in small ways. I love that the petite golden girl and the furry black boy out ahead of me both shift immediately and leap to the right-hand trail at one junction, only because I put a tiny pressure on the leashes and made a chirping sound behind my front teeth. Not a word from me, not a backward glance from them. I love that when we've all gotten a little out of breath, I say cheerily "Let's go back" and the two of them have passed me, reorganized five yards behind and the operation reverses course seamlessly. I just appreciate the time spent with these two friends of mine, as I do whenever I walk with a friend where no words are spoken because none are needed.

The cold and the sunlight and the lake's winter calm are lovely to experience. But I can't imagine it without a dog at my side.