Canine Constitutional

 

I've been re-reading C.S. Lewis' Surprised by Joy, and found a couple of passages that resonated as I walked the neighborhood with my faithful mini-schnauzer, Prince. A cold rain had just stopped, and the wind roared in the tops of the bare oaks.

I have realized for some time that Sloth is probably the cardinal sin that rests closest to my heart... that I have been for most of my life far too fond of comfort and too prone to inertia. Lent gives one a chance to meet these things head on, and I found some inspiration in a character that Lewis describes from his college days, his friend A.K. Hamilton Jenkin;

...Jenkin seemed to be able to enjoy everything; even ugliness.I learned from him that we should attempt a total surrender to whatever atmosphere was offering itself at the moment; in a squalid town, to seek out those very places where its squalor rose to grimness and almost grandeur, on a dismal day to find the most dismal and dripping wood, on a windy day to seek the windiest ridge. There was no Betjemannic irony about it; only a serious, yet gleeful, determination to rub one's nose in the very quiddity of each thing, to rejoice in its being (so magnificently) what it was.

This came back to me as I ventured out on this very blustery, damp and cold afternoon to walk old Prince, a dog who seems to fit almost exactly Lewis' description of his own homely hound, an Irish terrier named Tim;

Tim's society did not amount to much. It had long since been agreed between him and me that he should not be expected to accompany me on walks. I went a good deal further than he liked, for his shape was already that of a bolster, or even a barrel, on four legs... By now he and I were less like master and dog than like two friendly visitors in the same hotel. We met constantly, passed the time of day, and parted with much esteem to follow our own paths. I think he had one friend of his own species, a neighboring red setter; a very respectable, middle-aged dog. Perhaps a good influence; for poor Tim, though I loved him, was the most undisciplined, unaccomplished, and dissipated-looking creature that ever went on four legs. He never exactly obeyed you; he sometimes agreed with you.

Prince (now about 13 years old) genuinely enjoys our walks, but only to a point. He refuses to go further than a mile, and even toward the end of that, he slows to a very leisurely stroll. Fortunately, a mile constitutes exactly one turn around our loop and back to our front door. After that, I can push on alone.

Our neighborhood is laid out on the Hobbiton plan, the road rolling and meandering through large, openly-spaced lots (built mostly about thirty to forty years ago), with houses nestled well back among the tall oaks. Happily, the topography makes it very unlikely that further development will encroach on our little enclave. It is a wonderful place in which to walk. Like many spots in the Ozarks, though, the scenery consists of woods rather than wide vistas. I'm grateful for the old oaks that ring our place, but they have made our telescope practically useless.

I'm determined to walk more often, but I'll need to make some prudent preparations to pull that off; my favorite hat is too heavy and hot for the summer months, and I have no decent rain gear. I don't mind some discomfort - hope, in fact, to go in search of some discomfort - but I'm not out for a soaking, or a roasting, either.

A good walk also happens to bring a person to just precisely that state of mild fatigue that is perfectly cured by a frosty pint of something.

Comments

[M.B.]

I know it's not very Chestertonian of me, but I recommend dog-walking first thing in the early morning. I'm not a morning person by nature, and I find it helps to get the blood pumping. I used to own an Alaskan Malamute -- very energetic dogs -- and her early morning walks were enough of an ... adventure ... to awaken oneself. Plus, the early morning beats the midday sun, which of course only mad dogs and non-TLBC Englishmen go out in.