Talking My Walk

It is with no small degree of trepidation that I launch myself into this topic, knowing full well that it might come back and bite me in the future as “Exhibit A” in a commitment proceeding brought by Fred and Kate as a last but necessary resort in dealing with the old lady. Still, it is what is currently in my craw, so I will foolishly rush in, quivering angels be damned.

Even though we all may not embrace the concept with equal dedication, we all know that exercise is good for us. It is a difficult bit of information to avoid knowing since the message is ubiquitous – on line, in print, and long ago replaced astrological signs as an ice breaker at parties. Often after a numbing comparative analysis of the aerobic benefits of one form of exercise or another, the author concedes that walking is the best choice for most people. It is easy and doesn’t require a lot of fancy equipment or a membership in gym. People can walk in all sorts of places and in all kinds of weather, provided they have the right clothing. Where I live, gortex is de rigueur about six months of the year.

Dr. Fay tells me that walking is good for my heart and my blood pressure. My jeans tell me that it is good for my fanny as well. Not surprisingly perhaps, it turns out that walking is also good for dogs. Cesar Milan, the “dog whisperer,” observes that to be healthy, happy, and well behaved, dogs need three things: exercise, discipline, and affection. When I read that, I concluded that his prescription for dogs pretty much covered my needs as well and I embraced his admonition with the obsession of a zealot. Dogs not only add companionship to the daily slog, they bring guilt to the equation, which goes a long way to making sure I hit the road every day.

As a consequence, I now look upon these daily dog walks as my job, something that must be done, rather than a choice I make if there isn’t anything else going on. All things considered it is “nice work if you can get it!” Where else might I find employment that I can wrap up in a couple of hours spent out of doors in the company of pleasant co-workers. This walking time also is prime talking time and the dogs provide a nice foil for this. If a passerby catches me gesticulating to emphasize a point, I simply point to the dog. None of the locals would assume I was schizophrenic. In my neighborhood, you are suspect if you don’t have a dog and I am pretty sure most of my friends enjoy similar canine conversations. For sure, they are missing out if they don’t.

After a couple hours of chatting myself up, I can’t help but marvel at my brilliance. How insightful, how witty, how amazingly astute! From time to time I break this scintillating silence to confer with the dogs in order to discern their opinion. Invariably, they signal their concurrence with a wag while fixing me with an expectant look. That is my cue to turn the conversation to something they particularly enjoy with a remark like – “Aren’t you the best dogs in the world? Don’t you think you have a treat coming?” On cue, they sit and look at me, and I dig a little something out of my pocket, once again confirming that we are in total accord.

Then we set off again. Walk. Talk. Talk. Walk. By the time we get back to the house, the dogs are ready for a nap and I have the tough choice of deciding whether to sit by the fire and read, or clean up the kitchen. We are relaxed from the exercise and rejuvenated from our long mutually satisfying conversation. Is it any wonder that it never occurs to me to pick up the phone and call someone for a chat let alone drop by for visit? Some of my friends have suggested that my failure to do so indicates that I am becoming a reclusive, antisocial crank – well, no one has used those exact terms, but I can read between the lines. “I haven’t heard from you in such a long time, what have you been up to?” “Has your phone been out of order?” “I swear we saw more of you when you were working!”

I was starting to think that there might be some truth to that reclusive crank assessment until I realized that after spending a couple of hours every day talking to myself, I didn’t really need to talk to anyone else. Been there. Done that. Besides having experienced the joy of talking to myself, conversing with another person would surely tax me. First of all, I’d have to let them talk at least some of the time. I can’t think of a single friend who wouldn’t demand equal air time. Then there is the very real possibility that they might not agree with me on all points, resulting in some inevitable relationship angst. Finally, as if all of this isn’t enough, there is the certainty that they will want to talk about something other than me – themselves or their children or their own dogs, for crying out loud. Who needs that?

We are pretty happy with things the way they are, so for now we are sticking to our present regimen. Provided, that is that I quit being a slacker and get a move on. Indeed, at this very moment, if I am interpreting their wags and wiggles correctly, they are admonishing me to turn off the computer, get off my fanny, and, in a word, walk my talk!