The first time we took our dog, Peanut, for a walk in the park, she slept for the entire next day.
Well, that’s not quite accurate. She slept for the rest of the afternoon, then all of the next day.
In fact, she tried to put herself to bed while still wearing her harness. She just walked right through the front door and straight to her bed as if she’d just run the equivalent of a doggy marathon when, in reality, we’d gone for a forty-five minute stroll in a park.
This pretty much set up all expectations for her activity over the next two years. And she’s lived up to them.
Bed is essentially her happy place. Give her something cushy to lie on, tuck her in with a blanket, and she’s content to chase squirrels behind closed eyelids until she’s poked awake for another walk.
Or she was.
Then, we moved. To a city with massive hills. And suddenly, my dog likes going for walks.
This dog – the beast who will flat out refuse to jog unless there’s something in it for her – is climbing hill after hill, leaving her horribly out of shape mom (uh, me) two steps behind her. And she’s doing it on purpose. Peanut, who was once the epitome of lazy, is choosing to hike.
It’s been baffling me – this sudden eagerness to do, well, anything.
But tonight, while we were on our way back down the hill, greeting a little fluff-ball of a dog and meeting its owner, it all made sense.
This move is an adventure. It’s exciting and unpredictable. It’s a chance to shed stagnation and create a new normal. It’s what I’m doing. What my husband is doing. And, apparently, what Peanut is doing too.
I just wish it didn’t involve so many damned hills.