My dog and I were on our usual walk home from the dog park, quickly rounding the dangerous blind curve on Dimmocks Mill Road, where the road crosses under the railroad trestle and narrows. I don't believe a car and pedestrian could possibly co-exist here-- let alone one being pulled by an enthusiastic young Beagle-mix dog. I always hold my breath, and try to urge Bentley through as quickly as possible.
Just as we made it under the overpass safely and started to cross Eno St, we spotted another human and dog pair right in our path. An oversized Beagle-ish dog barked loudly at us and strained at his leash. Though he was larger and tri-colored, his face—with it's brown and white mask, cocked ears and quizzical sweetness, looked a lot like my Bentley's. His bark was a loud hound, howling call—and Bentley responded in kind. At the other end of the leash, holding on for dear life with one hand, while he clutched his cell phone with the other, was a short man with a shock of gray hair protruding from a navy stocking cap, who looked about my age.
I tried to keep my distance, pulling Bentley back, changing our course a little to go further to the right. But the dogs were both straining and pulling towards each other-- wagging tails, baying and answering each other. The man lowered his phone for a moment and called out, “He's actually friendly, if they want to say hello. He just has a loud bark.” So I brought Bentley over.
The two dogs began to joyfully try to snuffle under each others tails, which meant that they were walking in circles and getting their leashes tangled. “Mom, I gotta go now. I'll call you right back”, the man said into his phone.
He told me his dog was on a 7-day trial adoption from the shelter, to see if he would work out—before he officially adopts him. “That's exactly what I've just been through with Bentley”, I told him. “I got him at Paws 4Ever”, I added. “That's where Duncan came from too”, he replied. I realized that that name and even the dog himself were familiar to me. I now remembered seeing Duncan at the shelter on that fateful day when I'd only had eyes for Bentley.
Duncan and Bentley made a cute pair, with their Beagle faces and barks, their playful jumps and lunges. Most likely they recognized each other from the shelter. They seemed to be having a joyful reunion. We two humans stood together clinging to our leashes and conversing, trying not to get tangled up, watching to make sure that nothing turned aggressive or overly perverted in that doggie way.
He said so far Duncan was doing pretty well. The dog had proven trustworthy in the house during the day when he's at work. I told him Bentley gets into the trash and chews the table leg. “Other than that, he's pretty good when I'm gone.” I laughed. “But fortunately, I have a home business, so I'm around a lot.” I told him that it had been very important to me to find just the right dog—one who was gentle with children and wouldn't bark or scare the steady stream of kids and parents walking in and out of my house for piano lessons. Bentley had passed the test and I was certain that he was The One.
My new acquaintance seemed less certain about his dog, although he was strongly leaning towards making their connection official. “He has a really loud bark, and he pulls very hard,” he complained. “He's a little bigger than what I was looking for. But very sweet.”
He told me he's just discovered that Duncan can't be walked off leash. He tried it the other day. “Everything was fine at first, but then he got on a scent and ran off with his nose to the ground. I stood there and yelled 'Duncan! Duncan!', but it didn't do any good at all.” He told me he'd panicked because he thought he'd lost the dog—for good and it wasn't even technically his dog.
I told him I'd tried the same experiment with Bentley a couple of days ago with similar results, although Bentley didn't run off so far that I was truly worried. “At least I was prepared for that,” I told him, after years of living with my old purebred Beagle, Maggie. Maggie would “come”, “sit” and “stay” reliably at home, but if I took her for a walk and let her off leash, forget it. “A Beagle's nose takes priority over everything and it overrides the ears--- either that or they're just choosing not to listen”, I complained. “I wasted lots of hours and energy fruitlessly yelling at Maggie—demanding that she come when she was called. Finally, I just accepted her Beagle nature and quit trying to call her.” I had taken more risks back then, I told him, walking her loose in the woods, losing her to the scent of a deer or a rabbit and letting her run freely after it.
Sooner or later Maggie would wake from her nose trance and realize she was being left behind. Then she would follow MY scent trail to catch up with me.
“One day, I thought I'd lost her for good.” I told him. We were walking in Duke Forest and Maggie disappeared, as usual—this time for way longer than she'd ever done before. I kept retracing my steps, calling and calling her to no avail. Finally I walked back to my car—where I was extremely relieved to find her waiting for me. She was UNDER the vehicle—safe from swiftly passing traffic, and out of the way of other people who might think she was a stray. Maggie was very smart that way.
“ But anyway”, I told him, “I'm just not up for that kind of stress anymore. Bentley is going to be a leash dog.” He said he had come to the same conclusion with Duncan, after just one try—without going through all of the wild experiments that I'd tried with Maggie, back in the day. “Maybe age gives you automatic understanding about risk versus security,” I suggested, “You can reach the same conclusion without having to actually experience the risk, as you do when you are younger.” He nodded agreement.
So here I am-- having this conversation with this man that I have just met, as if we are old friends. It is Valentine's Day. He seems to be my age. We are both standing there in our wool hats and winter coats, our Beagly dogs tugging at their leashes. He hasn't spoken the words “we” or “wife” or “girlfriend” or “partner”. He has a friendly face and smiling eyes. He is wearing gloves, so I can't tell if he's wearing a ring or not.
We finally introduce ourselves instead of just our dogs. His name is John, and it turns out he lives only a few blocks away from me, and owns a little mill house—very similar to mine. There are so many little coincidences: Our dogs look alike, and we have both just adopted them from the same shelter. We both live in sturdy little mill houses built in the 1930's in the same neighborhood. We seem to be of similar age, and it's possible that we are both single, although I'm too shy to ask him that.
I give him enough hints about me that he'll be able to find me again if he wants to. I tell him where I live, and what time of day I usually walk Bentley. “Well, nice to meet you. We'll bump into each other again sometime, I'm sure,” he says. This seems to be a dismissal. He needs to continue his walk and call his mother back. I smile and say “I hope so.” I tell him I think Duncan's a sweet dog and that he should keep him. “You think so?” he asks. Then he calls out “Thank you. Yes, I think he's a keeper” as I walk away.
Will I see him again? I wonder as I walk away and head up the Nash St. hill towards home. Maybe I should have pressed for more information? Perhaps tried to arrange a doggie play date? Asked for his phone number? I hadn't wanted to seem overly eager. But hopefully, we will “bump into” each other again. Not only do we hang out at the same dog park, we both have four free obedience training classes coming up at Paws 4 Ever with our new adopted family members. And we both frequent the new neighborhood natural pet store and enjoy talking with its owner.
If I get really desperate, I could ask Lisa about him. She makes a point of really talking to her customers and their dogs and learning things about them. She surely has his name and address in her data base—and perhaps she would even give it to me, if I told her that I hoped Bentley and Duncan could have a doggie play date. Well, asking for the phone number is probably going a bit too far—but a little sleuthing couldn't hurt.
All I can do is believe that if it is Meant to Be, it will be. He crossed my path on Valentine's Day. That makes for a nice, romantic “how we met” story, anyway. My friend Laurece tells me that all couples who have good and lasting relationships, have an interesting “how we met” story that they enjoy telling. This certainly would qualify.
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Several weeks have passed and the cold weather has given way to a warm and beautiful spring. Though I walk Bentley in the neighborhood often, and frequent the dog park regularly, we have yet to run into John and Duncan again. I don't think I'd even recognize John if I saw him without his dog, or his winter coat and hat for that matter. Yet, even if nothing else ever happens other than this one conversation on a street corner, it still leads me to believe that there is hope in the world. I can just be on my normal walk, when suddenly someone new crosses my path. Perhaps if I'm open to such moments there may be new and wonderful possibilities of all kinds.
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