I originally wrote this in November 2015. I didn’t have a blog at the time and it never even crossed my mind to share it with anyone. I rediscovered it this weekend while going through some older projects, most of which I’d forgotten. We said goodbye to Molly in May 2017. She was a few months shy of 16 years old. We said goodbye to Scout in September of 2019. She was also close to 16. I rediscovered this piece on a day when I was missing them both something fierce.

My twenty-minute meditation session is almost up. I know this though I can’t see the timer on my phone that sits behind me. There are two clues: my feet are starting to fall asleep, and my dog, Scout, is pacing back and forth before me, flapping her soft brown ears every so often. Above and behind me on the couch, my other dog, Molly, sighs deeply. There are days when I wonder if they understand time. Can they see the timer? Do they know that when it says 2:45, and then 2:44, 2:43, 2:42, 2:41, that we’re almost done with this part of the morning routine?  Or is it my body-language? Do my toes flick and twitch as the tingling starts? Or perhaps my breathing deepens, or I swallow louder. Whatever it is, they know when it’s almost time.

Scout is trying to hurry me now. She’s on her back on the floor in front of me, wiggling her body across the carpet. Her bony hip bumps my knee and she jumps up and shakes her head, ears flap, flap, flapping loudly. She paws my thigh and pushes her nose into my hand. I smile and gently stroke her muzzle, my eyes still closed. I am in the moment, enjoying my girl, the soft-coarseness of her wiry fur, her warm breath on my palm. It’s still meditation.  

The last seconds wind down, and the timer sounds three gong-strikes. I open my eyes and stretch. Scout stands before me, her stub of a tail wagging frantically, proud of a mission accomplished. Behind me, Molly stretches and yawns; her tail thumps against the leather couch cushion. 

I take another moment to stretch, rolling my neck from side to side while massaging Scout’s head. And then I stand and pad down the hall to get the leashes. Darin is still sleeping and I try to be oh-so quiet as I open the door of the closet which stands next to our bedroom. Gingerly I reach up and remove the leashes from their hooks on the door. The metal carabiners on each end collide and I wince at the metallic clank. The clang of metal, however, is a soft whisper compared to Scout’s excited crying and Molly’s exuberant bounding up and down the hall. So much for trying to be quiet.

I drop the leashes on the floor in the entryway and grab my shoes. As I sit on the couch and tie them, Scout lays trembling and crying before me while Molly chases her tail. Molly is fourteen and, these days, is rarely successful in her tail-catching attempts. When she was young she was a pro; she’d often trick her tail by suddenly switching directions. In the past few years, though, her agility has lessened, and the direction switching is far more predictable than it used to be. But, this morning she wins: she catches the tail and even completes a half turn before dropping it. Panting, she looks at me, eyes peering out from behind black scruffy bangs, tail wagging. “Did ya see Mom? Did ya see?” 

“You got it!” I exclaim. “Good girl! You’re so tricky!”  Her tail wags.

I don my coat and a ball cap. I slip my phone into one pocket, and a small flashlight into the other. I start with Molly and slip her red halter over her muzzle, and then I do the same for Scout. I give each a brief rub behind the ears when I fasten the buckle. At long last, we’re ready.  Scout trembles, her entire body shaking as she stands before the door. She is motion, barely contained. Molly, on the other hand, is frozen solid; only her nostrils move, breath fogging the cold glass of the storm door. She is pure potential energy.

I open the door and Scout bursts forth followed immediately by Molly. Scout is straining at the leash and we haven’t even begun. I need to remind myself that she is eleven.  Did she have more energy at one? Surely she must have, but it doesn’t seem possible. Scout’s state of continuous movement seems to have been a constant over the years. 

At the end of the driveway I pause to look up into the predawn sky. Cold air rushes into my nostrils. My exhales are revealed in white puffs. To the southeast, Orion looms large, his dogs with him as always.  I smile. “Good morning,” I say softly. 

Scout’s crying. Enough dawdling.  

We set off down the steep single-track dirt trail, deftly negotiating the washout and the trio of rocks at the bottom of the hill. We turn left and cross the bridge. I hear a quick flap of wings on water and know we have disturbed a duck or a goose sleeping in the reeds at the edge of pond. Once over the bridge, the dirt trail stands out stark against the darkness. It appears a pale white line cleaving the black.

Our pace is brisk. There are bunnies about, and both Molly and Scout are on high alert. When they see one that I don’t I’m surprised by the sudden, lurching jerk. I’m certain that one of these days I’ll end up with a torn rotator cuff. And yet, I can’t help but be impressed by their strength and their energy. Eleven and fourteen years, and still so much power and excitement. 

The October morning is cool, bordering on cold, and though I warm up as we walk I’m glad to have the down vest over my sweatshirt, grateful that I remembered gloves. Molly and I both love the cold, though I think we’re likely at the limit of Scout’s preferred temperature range. She’s a German Shorthaired Pointer mixed with a German Wirehaired Pointer, and although a flurry of wiry white hairs fly off of her when she shakes and her hair weaves itself into all of our clothes, her coat is actually not very thick. She gets cold easily and in winter often needs to be coaxed outside. But Molly, with her thick black scruffy hair that’s always a mess, as though she just woke up or came off a two night bender (or both), loves the cold. On these cool mornings her ears and tail are high and she trots happily, occasionally bounding after a bunny. In winter, her excitement for snow is palpable and contagious.  Thinking of her tearing through drifts, white plumes flying behind her, I smile and am excited for winter.  

As we approach the fork in the trail that marks a half-mile and our usual turn-around spot, I look at my girls and their perked ears and wagging tails, and decide to continue on a bit further.  It’s clear to me that Molly is feeling well; she’s neither limping nor slowing. And so we press on into the darkness.  

When Molly was a pup I never thought she would make it to senior status; I assumed she would die young leaping from a rock face. Molly was a wild one in those days, and I was certain her tempting of the Fates would be the ruin of her in the end. And yet here we are, myself at forty-one and Molly at fourteen, still together.  She and I have been an inseparable pair longer than me and Darin, with whom I’ve shared my life for 13 years. Molly’s soul is that of the adventurous thrill-chaser, but her body is less willing to oblige these days.  While she still has more good days than bad ones, I see the balance beginning to tip. On mornings like this I find myself wondering how many more Autumns we’ll have together. How many more winters? One? Dare I hope for two? 

And then I’m pulled, quite literally, from my melancholy ruminations by the sudden yank on the leash as my girls bound in unison after yet another oblivious bunny. I watch the fervent wagging of their tales and smile. I think of the tattoo on the inside of my right wrist. A single word in a simple font, lower-case: today. My reminder that tomorrow is not guaranteed. Not for any of us. What matters is this morning. This walk. These dogs.

We turn-around, and that simple change of direction seems to turn down whatever dial controls Scout’s energy. Her pulling lets up. I hesitate to describe this as slowing down, for she is still out in front, the leash is still taut. But my shoulder is no longer on fire, my grip on the leash has relaxed. Having already patrolled this particular stretch on this particular morning, Scout no longer has an urge to go in all directions and be in all places at once. 

To the east the first hints of dawn are appearing. The sky grows lighter, a splash of purple-pink edging the horizon. We are almost back to the bridge when an owl hoots, and a heartbeat later its mate responds. Molly’s ears perk up and I scan the sky, searching. Again the low call, closer now and to my left. There is just enough ambient light that the dark horned outline at the top of the aspen stands out. When the response comes I spot the answering owl almost immediately. It is perched atop a roof. Our roof, to be precise. We are being welcomed home. 

We cross the bridge and make our way back up the single-track hill. Molly and Scout are slow to ascend, the steepness of the angle and the looseness of the sandy dirt revealing that both dogs are very much seniors. We pause at the top. Scout strains at the leash, pulling towards the house. As eager as she was to start the adventure, she’s now ready for water and breakfast. Molly stands relaxed by my side, head lifted, nostrils flaring as she gets in a few more early morning sniffs. I look up into the twilit sky, pleased to see Orion and his pups still visible, though barely. They, too, are at the end of their walk. “See you tomorrow,” I say. 

We turn and head towards the house. Part way up the drive I remove both dogs’ halters, and they trot freely ahead of me towards the entry. In an impressive burst of energy both girls leap, skipping the two lower steps. I laugh and call them show-offs as I rub first Molly’s flanks then Scout’s. I open the door and Scout bursts inside and into the kitchen, the slobbery sounds of water being gulped starting before Molly is even through the door. I step in after her. Before I close the wood door I pause for a moment, looking out through the glass at the dawn. Molly turns and looks with me, leaning into my thigh as she’s done all these years. I place my hand on her head and look down. Her liquid brown eyes are gazing up at me. 

Wordlessly, we thank each other for the walk. 

We thank each other for all the walks.