My New Walking Buddy

My New Walking Buddy. 

 

We are just back from london, and I take my first Dublin walk of the New Year.  It’s lashing rain, grey and miserable, and my usual walking buddy has fecked off to Uganda to save souls or find herself or some such rubbish.  I reckon she’s going to try and write her own version of “eat, pray, love” while she’s there, only hers will be called something like ‘drink, fart, share (with everyone, and on every possible platform)’.  

So out I trek with my dog Bolt for company, instead of Miriam, into the lashing rain. He’s excited, anxious to get out, jumping and leaping around while I struggle to get his lead on him. These aren’t issues I have with my familiar companion, and I can feel my irritation rising as I venture out into the gusting wind.  It’s tedious, walking on a horrible night, with no conversation; no one to make me laugh; no one to distract me when I cry; no one to shoot the breeze with or debate the issues of the day.  I’m not being mean about Bolt: he’s a great dog, who licks my face when I get home, sleeps on my feet at night, doesn’t do the cat too much harm when he catches her, and is very nearly toilet trained.  But he really isn’t a great conversationalist.    

Eventually I make it home and fall through the door, soaked to the skin, legs aching, and frankly, bored.  I strip off the soggy wet clothes just in time for him to shake his mucky coat all over me and spray gloopy brown stuff all over the hall floor.  I pull out my pedometer, eager to at least see the scientific evidence of my newly invigorated fitness regime.  I look at it aghast; I tap it; shake it; hold it to my ear before remembering that these things don’t tick.  My heart sinks as I realise it’s not broken, it’s just not good news.  All that effort and angst and unpleasant stickiness, for a mere 2,762 steps! Christ, an hour walking with Mir and we can cover 8,000 steps or more.

I consider the other differences in walking with my two very different partners.  Of course there are some obvious ones, like the fact that I never had to carry small treats in my pocket to reward Miriam for not barking at children or straying where she shouldn’t, or jumping on strangers.  Actually, now I think of it, that could have been a really effective approach. I wonder is it too late?  I don’t have to rub her down with an old towel when we get in from the rain, although there was that one time with the white jeans and the red wine, but enough said on that.  I don’t have to pull her on a lead to keep her on the pavement, and in fact it’s always her who decides our route.  Through some completely unspoken understanding we’ve developed, I just follow and she leads the way. Bolt never leads.  And it goes without saying that with Miriam I don’t need to carry nappy sacks around to pick up her poo.  (No, I can’t; I swore I would never tell and I won’t; she’s a good friend and it was a long time ago.  Oh, well alright, but you’ll have to buy me a drink first).

I’ve weighed it all up; done my list of positives and negatives; considered all the facts,  and do you know what? She can just stay there in Uganda, doing her spirtual discovery thing or taking drastic measures to shake off those unwanted christmas pounds, whatever her objectives are.  But I’m doing just fine here. Bolt and I are grand.  We don’t need her at all.

I don’t miss her.

Not one bit.

Not at all.

Honestly.

Promise.