Observations whilst dog walking

The lazy man's dog walk, Shepherd's Bush Green

Day 6 of my substack launch week: an every day tale of dog walking in the city.

It’s a foggy, grey day. We walk from Sinclair Road to Shepherds Bush Green, the lazy man’s dog walk. Jackson is – unusually - on a flexi. I’m sick of the harness and the rucksack - the long line, the tug toys, the puppy dummies, the balls on ropes, the treats, the muzzle, the squeezey cheese, the liver pate in a tube, the rabbit fur flirt pole and the emergency squeaker. Today I’ve pared it down to the essentials – lead, squeezey cheese, muzzle.

On the green, at any given point, Jackson is as far from me as he can be. He relentlessly maxes out the 10 metre tape. My sciatica plagues me, as it always does when I'm in some emotional quandary; I hadn't realised that for ages but once I did and with hindsight, it seems obvious. My arm is outstretched, constantly, my frozen shoulder nags. I switch the flexi to the other hand. Now, my left elbow twinges – golfer’s elbow, or perhaps tennis, I can never remember which. I'm irritated, sick of pain. I yearn to be young again and not have these aches, I'm fed up with the cumulative stress on my joints rearing its ugly head: now here, now there. As always though, I know I'm being spoilt, whiney, self-indulgent – most people have far more pains; most people have it far worse, full stop. If my problems were literal they’d be be miniscule. Despite knowing this, my emotions screech and rail. He’s taking me away from myself! I grumble, irritated. Protesting is a trait of mine, resisting. I wish it wasn't. I'm dutiful (good) and also resentful (bad). I wish I was laid back, a free spirit, but I'm not. That’s no-one’s fault but my own, but I act like it is. 

I'm very rarely irritated when I get out on a dog walk, but today, for some reason, I am. Why does he get to pull me, not the other way around? I think, cross. I think about the owners I see dragging poor tired reluctant low energy dogs along. That’s worse, I tell myself. Better to have a spirited dog than a lack lustre dog. It seems a contradiction in terms, that - not very dog-like. Certainly something I’m not familiar with. Dog-ness, inversed. Dog-ness suppressed. Repressed? I’m not sure what the difference is, in this instance. Whatever, it’s a travesty.

Jackson is tethered to me, but – as far as he possibly can – he ignores this fact. With his brute strength (literally and otherwise) he forces me to prioritise him, to follow where he pulls. He imposes his needs, he forces me to comply. I feel a flash of anger at that, it’s quite human, I think, how they (we) submit others to their (our) needs, their (our) wants. But the flash subsides; I do it to him, too, of course I do. Life’s not ideal. None of us are free. We are tethered by love, and we endeavour to keep each other safe. Or close. Or both. For most of us, life is a long series of moments of either being controlling and being controlled, in small or big ways. Jackson isn’t doing it wilfully, and it's not really fair that he's tethered in the first place. He’d love to be free so that he could do what he wants, even if that means he would put himself in danger. He feels that yen for freedom that we all feel, even if he doesn’t know what he’d do with it if he got it. 

On a sudden whim and after ensuring the muzzle is on securely, I let him off the lead. I am sick of the long line and of the flexi too. I'm sick of him not being free. I'm sick of us being tethered. After a few steps, he glances at me, straight into my eyes – I see the surprise there - but he has things to do so just as quickly looks away, shakes vigorously, sets off at a fast trot. He moves still on the curved trajectory he is so used to doing, limited by the flexi; that saddens me. But with freedom I notice that he comes back to me rather than trying to get further away. Curious. Or maybe, as to be expected. It’s just like relationships, I think. We should all be untethered, so that we can choose to come back rather than straining away. It’s a lesson for life, this, I think, and I file it away in my brain as 'stuff I learnt through observations on dogs'.  He's different from 'normal' dogs, Jackson, difficult. But his different-ness and his difficult-ness show me so much, teach me.

As we near the north western corner of the green I can see a small boy throwing something at the pigeons. I watch him, annoyed, certain that he is trying to scare them. His movements are forceful and awkward, they seem threatening and aggressive.  But then, as I get closer, I see that he’s only about 3 and that I've got it wrong. It's not ill-meant, it's just clumsy determination. He's throwing as hard as he can to the pigeons, not at them. He’s focusing on getting it right, putting his whole body and soul into it; his two feet which have not long ago learned to balance, to walk, are rooted to the spot in a bid to attain the stability his top half needs. Even at his young age he realises you can’t give freedom to your whole self at the same time, that that it wouldn’t be productive, that you have to be sensible. The mother has another three kids with her. They are all under about six and they are alternately sitting in, riding on and tumbling beside the one pushchair. This mother, this inevitably harried mother has thought in advance to bring with her a bag of bread for the pigeons of shepherds bush green to eat. I watch her get the bag out, distribute the contents from it fluidly, as if she is sowing seeds in a far away field. She does it so that they all get a share, as far as she can control it. So that they all remain safe, alive. The boy continues to throw his fistfuls of crumbs, as best he can. It moves me, this small kindness from this woman. Pigeons have to eat regularly, otherwise they’ll die. What a life, I think, dependent on others; pecking, pecking, pecking at the ground in order not to die. It reminds me of me frantically crossing off and adding things to my list. I sigh; tired, but no longer cross. I even laugh at myself and the parallel I've made. There I go being all dramatic again, I think.

At the end of the green and Jackson on the lead now, we cross at the traffic lights onto Uxbridge Road and the entrance to Shepherds Bush Market. I like to bring him here as there are so many interesting smells. It’s laziness but something else, too. An acknowledgement, a celebration of this our rich urban landscape. I love the peace of the countryside but the energy here is something else, it’s something I miss, and cherish. I dislike forced interaction with humans most of the time these days. And yet, I adore small impromptu connections on my dog walks and laugh with a lady now, jolly, badly dressed lady at Jackson's outraged overreaction to a tiny chihuahua barking at him. Our eyes meet and hers are crinkled with mirth; she looks like someone I'd like to know. Sometimes, I wonder if I just spend time with the wrong people. I can be light, expansive, free. And yet so much of the time I'm not. I'm so busy pulling away from things on my metaphorical flexi lead. 

Our dogs spend a lot of their time elsewhere, in big spaces moving fast - with grass or sand under their feet. But this has value too, this slow mooching of the gritty urban landscape with its multiplicity of smells and sounds and sights. Jackson stalks ahead of me by a few metres, the flexi tape taut, again. The streets are quiet here so I let him. A few metres ahead of us a lady comes out of a side passage and turns towards us. I try to reel him in. She smiles at me, reassuring me that a slightly errant dog with a muzzle on doesn’t bother her in the slightest. I am grateful. I grin back. I love London. I love the dog mafia that covers every inch of the planet, it's a skein that reassures me, helps me to feel safe. One can always find a friend if one has a dog. Having a dog is a bridge, I think. And also a gauge, I add. 

On a pretty residential street running between Goldhawk Road and Uxbridge Road parallel to the market the next day Stevie pushes to get biscuits in exchange for walking at a normal pace. I tell her no, and explain to her in my head (or maybe even out loud, I’m not sure) that sometimes things are just done for the common good, done to co-exist, not for rewards. She seems to accept that. The day is springlike now, it has totally changed character in the time we’ve been out, it’s temperate and everything feels soft and mellow. What a difference it makes. I wonder if this is what it feels like to live life microdosing. I remind myself I need to find a source and try it. Back on the Green I go to pick up Jackson’s dog poo. There’s another one right next to it. My husband would disagree but I pick it up, helping the community I think, chuckling. It’s cold and grim, there’s something disdainful about picking up someone elses dog poo, but it’s not undoable, it’s not that hard. I tie the bag and chuck it into a nearby bin with relish. Sometimes you gotta just make your own decisions in life, whatever other people close to you think of them.

We wander back, over the green again, watching the pigeons pecking and the branches swaying and the skyscrapers standing and the traffic hurrying and the delivery riders eating mcdonalds and marvelling (again, always) at the tall angel that watches over the area. At the eastern end of Shepherds Bush Green there’s a small, messily paved area with railings around it for no discernible reason. It feels incongruous and magical and I have often lately dream of holding dog training classes there, making it into some sort of community hub. I do a lot of dreaming and not a lot of doing, mind. The rubbish man’s cart is left here, and people use it as an enclosed dog area, even though the gate is a bit dodgy. I enter and let Jackson off. Stevie follows us. I watch Jackson, because I don't need to watch her. How ignored good siblings must feel, I think, how taken for granted. 

That proud gait, off he goes. As usual, he heads for the raised beds where there must be some sort of animals living. He plunges his head into the greenery and I can hear him sniffing deeply. Rats, I suppose. Jackson has a nose for sniffing out rats, and for rubbish too. He’s fascinated by the dirtier side of life. He’s not the only one. Observing him, his arousal level, I think about how we seek out things that are hidden, things that are forbidden and unwholesome, how those things excite us, pique our curiosity, appeal to us. Free for a few minutes from the need to control or micro-manage (which I don’t always want to even though I feel compelled to) I sit down on the little pillar and make myself comfortable. I smile. He’s happier on his rat-sniffing bender than playing exactly the way he ought to. Maybe sometimes we just have to cut each other a bit of slack.