The noble beast, the pompetus of love, the elder statesman of his radius, has been suffering neighborhood walks for an entire month. A month! Walking on cement! With his delicate toes!
I remind him that some dogs don't get a daily walk, but he's spoiled. He remembers hikes in the mountains. When do we get to go back to the wild? he wants to know. When do we get to smell coyotes again? Not that he wants to meet them in person.
Boz doesn't know it yet, but today we get back on the trail. He has new flea meds, a special water bottle and desire enough to carry him far past where we're going, no matter how delicate his toes.
But you can't tell a dog these things until the last second or they'll follow you at your heels, gazing at you desperately until the moment the leash jangles and the car door opens. So I haven't told him yet. Right now, the fava bean of farts is snoring.
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