I started taking longer walks because my dogs needed them.
Somewhere along the way, I realized they had quietly become one of my favorite parts of the day.
Now that summer has settled into the Pacific Northwest, our schedule revolves around the weather. We head out before breakfast while the air is still cool, usually somewhere between three-quarters of a mile and a mile and a half. If the evening cools off enough, we’ll head out again, climbing the steep neighborhood hills while the sky still looks like it’s five o’clock—even though it’s creeping closer to nine.
Every morning starts the same.
Boots stays curled up beside me just long enough to give me his signature teefy kisses.
Ollie, on the other hand, is already waiting.
The moment I ask, “Do you want to go for a walk?” he’s off. Running from room to room. Whimpering impatiently while I put on my shoes, find their harnesses, and fumble with the front door as though I couldn’t possibly move fast enough.
I don’t think he’s ever had a bad walk.
We have our favorite routes, but they aren’t set in stone. Sometimes we turn left instead of right because another dog is out. Sometimes we double back because the boys seem convinced there are better smells in the other direction.
Truthfully, I trust their judgment.
Our neighborhood is quiet. Most of our neighbors are retired, and the houses have been standing for decades beneath towering pine trees that seem impossibly tall. Lavender spills over garden beds. Blackberry vines have started stretching across fences, still waiting for their fruit to ripen. Every now and then, the sweetest scent from a tiny white flower drifts through the air, and I still haven’t figured out what it’s called.
If we’re lucky, we’ll spot cottontail rabbits darting across front yards or chasing one another in playful circles. Squirrels race up tree trunks the second they hear us coming.
The boys notice every single one.
And, of course, every interesting smell deserves a full investigation.
Watching them explore the world never really gets old.
Most days, an audiobook keeps me company. Other times, my mind wanders toward whatever I’m creating next, what I’d like to accomplish, or simply enjoying the quiet that comes from being away from my desk for a little while.
It’s become a pocket of my day that belongs to no one else.
A few weeks ago, I noticed something had changed.
The hills didn’t feel quite as steep.
I was still breathing hard. Still working up a sweat.
But somewhere along the way, I’d stopped asking myself, “When is this over?”
Thirty minutes seemed to disappear as quickly as five minutes used to.
Sometimes I wish the walks could be a little more about me. I could walk faster. Go farther. Knock out my steps and call it good.
But then I’d miss the things that have made these walks so special.
I’d miss Boots trying to sneak a mysterious snack off the sidewalk.
I’d miss Ollie proudly showing me how much braver he’s become around other dogs.
I’d miss the lavender, the pine trees, the rabbits, the squirrels, the warm summer evenings, and the tiny moments that somehow make an ordinary neighborhood feel magical.
The boys don’t care about pace.
They don’t care about fitness goals or closing rings on a smartwatch.
They’re simply excited to be outside.
To sniff.
To explore.
To see what’s around the next corner.
And maybe that’s what they’ve been teaching me all along.
Not every walk needs to be about getting somewhere faster.
Sometimes it’s enough to notice where you already are.
I started these walks because my dogs needed them.
Somewhere between the teefy kisses, the sniffing adventures, the audiobooks, the steep hills, and the summer sunsets, I realized something.
I needed them, too.
0 comments