Pettigrew goes on a minimum of three walks a day. One in the morning, one between noon and 5pm and one after 8pm. He knows it. I know it. It’s a routine that never changes.
It’s not a choice. It’s a necessity. Pettigrew considers our yard an extension of the house. Therefore, he will only relieve himself on walks. It doesn’t matter whether it’s hot, cold, rainy, snowy, stormy, out he must go. And not a short walk either. It takes a while to get things flowing.
Yet, my rescue dog is a prima donna. He doesn’t like rain. Thunder and lightening terrify him. And he wilts in the heat.
The last few days we’ve experienced a heat wave. Temps have soared into the 90s. Yesterday, Pettigrew and I tried to wait it out. We went out around 5 and it was definitely hotter than it had been earlier in the afternoon. Learning from experience, I informed Pettigrew that we would go out earlier today. He didn’t bother to acknowledge me, but kept his comfy position curled up on the sofa, keeping one watchful eye on me.
I approached and fastened the leash. He made no objection, nor did he help. No lifting his head so I could get to his collar. Nope, if I was foolish enough to want to fasten that leash, I could just go ahead and fumble blindly through the mass of fur.
With the leash secured, he showed enormous reluctance to leave the sofa. After a firm tug to show I meant business, he leisurely unwound his body, lowered his forepaws to the floor, demonstrated his perfect downward dog yoga pose, then lowered his hind legs and moseyed to the back door…and he kept on going…into the kitchen.
“No, no, no, we are going out now, before it gets hotter,” I explained. He looked at me over his shoulder as if I was crazy. I picked up the leash, opened the back door, and dragged him on to the porch.
He stopped, shocked as the wall of heat hit him. The eye he rolled in my direction was full of incredulity that I would want to take him out in this weather.
But, again, knowing it would only get worse and we would have to go out sometime, I persevered. Dragging him through the yard and out the back gate. He remained lagging behind me, to the full extent of the leash for the entire walk, turning his head suggestively at cross streets to indicate that we could, at this intersection, easily head back home.
He failed to acknowledge his part in this exercise. If he would make haste and do his business, I would be only too glad to return home. Pettigrew preferred his role as long-suffering martyr to my tyrannical whims.
Eventually, as they always do, things began to flow and we could go home. So glad the forecast for the next few days is for cooler weather!
Ruth Polk 