For many years, my only companion was our dog, Sno. A small but mighty Bichon Frise, our dog may have looked ordinary, but he was smart, creative, and always ready for ice cream and rolling at my request. While I worked, he slept, waking to chase the red cat from next door, greet a delivery person, or sit in the sunshine.
We didn’t agree on everything, especially when to get up and when to go to bed. He sighed with boredom when a project was due and I didn’t have time to play. He didn’t understand weekends, deadlines, and visitors who left him. However, we both agreed on walking.
At least once a week, we took a long walk to the beach. For him, there were tall grasses and exciting smells. For me, there were other dog walkers and neighbors to catch up with. We returned tired, thirsty, and very happy.
Being a dog with huge ambition and short legs, Sno needed several breaks along the way. The one at the entrance to the beach was his favorite, possibly because he knew we were circling back home. There, on a windy summer day, he looked up at me just as I was looking down at him. We both grinned (咧嘴笑). This was the best walk ever.
When he was old and dying, our walks were shorter and closer to home. I’d take him for a walk and then go out for my own walk, wandering around the beach like we used to do. I always grinned when I got to the entrance to the beach, remembering that summer day when he was young and energetic.
In his final days, Sno still insisted on walking. It took twice as long to take even the shortest walk, but we enjoyed every step. Then came that Sunday when he leaned hard toward the beach walk. How could I refuse his last-walk wish?
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We took the walk.
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After he died, I went for the long walk.
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