Singer, forever known now as the “Walk Witch”, becomes
transformed by her daily walks. It is unchanging, the transformation, even if
the circumstances are varying from day to day. Even though we might take a
different route, or the weather is cloudy one day, steamy hot the next, she
falls into the same rhythms during her walk. The first bunny she sees, she
stops to mesmerize for several minutes:
her head erect, her nose twitching, her eyes focused. Sometimes her paw
steps slowly, silently forward, inching toward her prey. Her elegant legs
twitch in excitement—she is drinking up the essence of her bunny, who is
motionless in terror, its black eye transfixed on the sight of that big red dog
stalking just a few feet away. The bunnies never even consider running away at
this time, it’s as if they’ve all made the assessment: “My life is over—I could never run from
that fast dog.” It also seems the very molecules that float in the air above
the bunny are somehow absorbed by Singer. She is doing a sort of Vulcan-like
transfer of animal spirits, I believe. And the transformation is completed as
she suddenly comes back to the present, her walk, and she moves energetically
forward at a pace that pulls at her long flexi-lead, so that I am straining to
keep up.
I wonder just what is involved in this complex transaction
of animal spirit to animal spirit during these walks. It seems that, whatever
the process, it energizes Singer and she takes the rest of the walk at a brisk
speed, somehow happier. I feel like a slow child, struggling to keep up with my
super fast nanny, who has decided to embark on an ambitious exercise program
for her chubby charge. “Come, come,” Singer might say in an English (or Irish)
accent, “Hurry it up!”
I cannot help but admire her athletic movements several feet
ahead of me. She slices through the air, whether it is wet-blanket humid out,
or still and foggy just before rain, she moves at a business-like pace. The
other dogs on our walk always stop to look at her; some bark energetically,
trying to get her attention. She may get her guard up, and start to growl, at
which point I carefully steer her across the street. Suddenly, I think of
myself as being in charge again, instead of her, and I think of the near-miss
of a vicious dog fight. I am always so relieved. Singer hardly takes any
notice. She is on a mission: “Come!
Come!”
Other times we will meet our neighbors, who may stop to pet
Singer and talk to me for a few minutes. Singer is aloof towards most people. I
excuse her frosty manners, saying that she is just tired from her walk. But
privately, I wonder why she is not a people dog, like Saylor was. She is
incredibly bonded to me, I know how much space I take up in her canine mind:
more than 90 percent, I’m sure. I know she lives and breathes by my wishes and
actions. I can’t make any movement in the house without Singer trotting down
from her couch to come check out my actions, see what I’m doing. It’s kind of a
daunting relationship—sometimes, I actually invite Singer to “go see Daddy”
(Jeff) so that she stops trying to paw me, or lay on my feet.
But man, every day I am so glad to have her. She is such an
incredible animal. She has brightened my life so much, and I love her so very
much. As I love Dakota, my sweet kitten, who is getting on in years. Both are
such precious pets.
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