Winter Legs

When I am walking you, I am not aware of myself. I like it that way.

When we are on a walk or I am walking you or you are walking me I am aware of what is outside of myself. I first notice the chilled air, which makes my cheeks sting and nose run as you begin to run, I am closing the wooden door behind me as quickly as I can. I notice how your bladder must ache as you always have to go near the bushes on the right of the driveway first, peeing as quickly as you can. You pee a lot, you know. I watch how you stain your front right paw yellow and I wonder if the snow will wash it away even though I know it never will because it never does. I wonder if it hurts. I watch as your legs bend and reposition often, aching and shaking from years of use and medications. I feel bad for those legs.

When you are finished, I see a shift in you, I observe your instincts come into full fruition as you lift your snout to catch a scent. Each one of your four crooked legs seem to move individually, each with as much determination as the other to create momentum. I am amazed by those legs. I watch as you make your way as close to the road as I will let you go before yelling, “Buddy” or a more disheartening phrase, “You know we can't go today.” I know you like to explore further than the confines of our Nonna’s house, but I worry in the winter. I watch as you accept my anxieties, staring out to what is beyond for a long few breaths.

You do this often on our walks.

You pause, for what feels like long periods of time but I stay with you. I watch as your legs gradually start to bend like pipe cleaners but you remain still, observing. You absorb every last second of everything, of nothing. Of what seems like nothing, but to you it is everything, which makes me believe there is something in the nothing. I watch your legs and eventually I can’t stand your stance and I pull at your leash. Your legs must be tired. I pull at your leash, you reluctantly follow, I am always surprised how strong you are and I think you know that. I know you test me Buddy, but I test you too. I lead you away from the front of the house, away from incoming cars who often go over the 30 mile per hour speed limit. I watch as you trudge through the snow without hesitation and I imagine you are fighting those aching legs but you continue to trudge. I admire those legs.

I notice you smell the ground as if you can almost see what is hiding right beneath the thick white blanket of winter and I pull at your leash again. I am impatient which is why I tug at your leash and tell you, “Come on, let's go Buddy, come on.” I know you are old and I know you ache but the longer we smell the same spot over and over again the more impatient I become so I tell you, “lets go”. You continue further down into the backyard, I follow your hobbling legs. Step by step, I watch you and I hear you pant and cough and yet we continue. The backyard is an open field of grass covered now in snow, surrounded by woods that will forever intrigue you and I know this so I let you lead me further.

An abundance of trees surround us furthering the curiosity of what lies beyond us.We both follow your nose because mine is running and my cheeks are burning but I want to follow you. I wonder in these moments what you think about and how much longer your legs will be able to trudge in this life. I watch as you sniff each mound of snow or rock or bush with such intensity and I watch as you sneeze and shake your head which shakes your body and sometimes I watch as you lose balance. I stare with amazement that nothing ever seems to stop you. You are the epitome of fall and get right back up.

I notice the ground is uneven, some areas are thicker with snow which I tell you as I hear you pant, “We are in the thick of it Buddy, come on this way Buddy." We are in the thick of it and I see the left side of the backyard will be easier to walk through and I think to myself those legs could use a break from the thick of the snow. I scold once again, “Come on Buddy,” because you are stubborn like our Nonna and you don't want to move but I tug at you and wish you knew I was only trying to help. I am only ever trying to help you.

I notice our old footprints and paw prints from our previous walks and I notice how close together your paws are compared to my feet. I notice how my steps are much bigger and shaped like a boot and I am reminded that you do not wear shoes. Not only do I feel bad for those legs but I feel bad for those paws too. I wonder how long it takes for the snow on your snout to slow you. I see your body struggle but your gums are perked up in a sloppy, crooked Buddy smile and I am reminded this walk is for you. So, I watch you continue to trudge and jump through the thickness of the snow and I know your body does not match your ambition so I am here to help guide it. I know you are old and I know you ache but you are teaching me patience and to get back up every time I fall. This walk is also for me.

The side of the house on the left has always been my favorite and I think it is yours too. It is easier for the both of us to walk through. I try to encourage you as you encourage me, “Come on Buddy, keep going you got it.” I hear the fatigue building in your breathing and panting and I think it is time we return to Nonna and the warmth of her house and her hands. She worries when I take you out too long. You know you can test me and I will eventually give in and stay out longer than I anticipated, I know these walks keep us both going. I tug at your leash and yell out this time with more finality, “Come on Buddy, let's go inside, come on let's go, let’s go get some water,” and you look at me with keen understanding.

I hear you panting and I hear you coughing but I see you don't want to come inside but it's been awhile now and we both must be cold. I hear you panting and I am reminded of the blackness of your throat and I know you must need water. I think it might be cancer. I am sorry I cannot let you lead any longer but it is time to go inside. We make our way back to the front of the house and I pull you in close, grabbing onto your harness to help you get past your initial fear of the front steps. You were chained outside for years of your existence before we found you . It was not your fault Buddy. It was never your fault.

We are so close to the warmth of the wood stove I can smell it. But you pause. You stop on the last stone step to watch a barn owl, watching us. I've never seen one so close. Three living beings, sharing a moment in time. There is a gentle understanding, time is something you might not have much left of my dear friend. You use the last of your energy to jump through the doorway and I watch the owl fly away.

I have never seen one so close.

Editorial Commentary

“Winter Legs,” is about the inherent connection between human and dog, between friendship and hardship. This prose piece follows the wandering thoughts that occur while taking my Nonna’s dog Buddy out for a walk during a winter day. He was originally chained outside for the first five years of his life and was rescued from his owners by the people living next to him. My Nonna found Buddy looking online as she loves Springer Spaniel’s and drove a few states away to pick him up and bring him back to Massachusetts. At the time, he was used to eating his feces, he could not climb stairs, couldn't bark, didn't know how to sit, every aspect of a happy healthy dog life was absent. Now he is around 11 years old with deteriorating physical health. I wanted to write this piece to highlight how despite the physical state Buddy is in, he is always so eager to go outside,to walk around, to jump, to smell everything he can. He has an ambition to get the most out of his days that I admire so greatly. The edits I made included adding more details of imagery to enhance the overall ability for readers to visualize this story, correcting grammatical errors, as well as altering the spacing between paragraphs to make this story easier to read. I wanted this piece to reverberate in the reader's mind, to spring memories in their own lives.