Morning
Walk by Aviva Enoch
The sound of opening
the zip lock bag of liver treats jolts Bentley awake from where he's
been lounging on my bed, no doubt spreading white wiry fur on the
purple and black Indian bedspread. He bursts into the kitchen. As I
lift the leash off its hook, he jumps excitedly, lunges and tries to
grab a hold of it, wagging his tail like crazy. Beside the glass
doors that lead to the deck, he leaps about three feet in the air, as
if to show me exactly where he wants to go. Then, he picks up his
toy stuffed snake that's lying on the floor, whips it back and forth
around his head, drops it and barks loudly. It's the most exciting
thing that has ever happened: Bentley and I are going out on our
morning walk!
I command him to
sit long enough so that I can attach the harness around his chunky,
wiggly body. The only reason he succumbs to this is because of the
liver treats that he knows are in my pocket. As soon as the harness
clicks, he gets to lick one out of my hand.
Bentley pulls me
down the steps. I really have to work to restrain him. It's a good
thing he's not a large dog, or I'd be in trouble. He's a pound
hound, about knee high with freckles and spots all over like a
hunting dog. The name Bentley, which he was given at the pound,
reminds me of a dignified British gentleman. It's a funny contrast
to his disproportionately long, short-legged body, and Beagle face
with the warm, brown eyes.
Before we exit the
back gate, I have him sit for me again to receive a second liver
treat. This cues him that it is time to calm down, to stop biting
and tugging the leash. Once we get outside the gate and on to the
little cul-de-sac behind the house, he jaunts proudly—tail and nose
held high. Sometimes people we pass remark on his gait and what a
happy dog he must be. But now his nose is to the ground, and he's on
to something—following an unseen trail. He pauses, emphatically
snuffling a certain spot. I tug the leash and say “come on”, but
he will not budge until he satisfies his sniffer, then lifts his leg
to add his own special scent to this spot. This is a routine that is
repeated often throughout our walk.
We pass old lady
Helen's house. She has claimed to be on her death bed since 2002.
She is tethered to an oxygen tank, and she never leaves her house.
She claims that the old west Hillsborough cul-de-sac we live on is
her private drive--even though town records clearly show that it is a
public street. We have had some terse exchanges over parking more
than once. If I were a better person, perhaps I'd still try to visit
her, bring her food occasionally, ask her if she needs anything. She
is a sick old lady after all—a shut in. But the rude way that she
has treated me allows me to shirk being neighborly without guilt.
Helen's aging Chihuahua, Jada, runs out of the off-white water stained house with
its awnings over the windows, and begins to bark at us through the
chain link fence. Jada is the only dog I know whose bark sounds
exactly like “Bow wow wow”. Although I always think of these
tiny dogs as “ankle biters”, and actively dislike them, she and
Bentley enjoy sniffing each other through the fence.
Jada's little bark
is ferocious, but she is wagging her tail. As I wait for Bentley to
finish socializing and leave his mark, I once again marvel at the
yard full of old Southern kitsch. There are Negro statues of a man
carrying a lantern and a boy fishing-- which I'm sure are no longer
made. Behind the shrubs lurks the statue of an Indian chief, with
his hand over his forehead as if to say, “How!”. A bottle tree
with antique blue and green glass bottles glints in the sun. Beside
the fence are numerous sparkly yard globes, bowling balls and bird
baths. Stone gnomes lounge on the back porch. A rooster stands
as a sentry beside it. The porch is decked with Christmas lights that
are never taken down.
Helen grew up in
this house— her parents were mill workers. This whole little
section of town is now known as the historic “mill village”. We
live in simple, small, but very sturdy houses—with heart pine
floors and bead board ceilings—originally built by the Bellevue
Cotton Mill for its workers in the 1920's. Now, although a few of
the original families still remain, the neighborhood is gradually
being taken over by young families and singletons who shop at Weaver
Street Market, the local health food store. We love the funky old
houses, and have renovated them—uncovering the old brick hearths,
putting in central air and new roofs, or adding a second story under
the eaves, for childrens bedrooms. This is the case with the Clayton
family home that we now pass. This sweet young family with two
children can often be seen outside chatting in the evenings. I love
the way the little street comes to life with the sound of kids riding
bikes, playing in the yard, or running outside to watch the trains
pass when the whistle blows Both of these children are now my piano
students. Yes, sometimes my neighborhood walks lead to professional
networking—and I have gained four new piano students this way.
As we round the
corner, a lone mockingbird perched on the wire above us, gives us a
morning concert-- loudly performing his complete repertoire of
whistles, and tunes and cackles.
We are cross Nash
Street to Margaret Lane, entering the historic district of
Hillsborough proper--
which is generally
more genteel, with larger, fancier homes than the mill village.
There on the left, we pass one of the more elegant houses in the
neighborhood--Sarah's stone mansion, with its lovely showplace garden
and meditative goldfish pond. A Mexican man is kneeling in the dirt
pulling up weeds. Sarah calls to me from the other side of her
wrought iron gate with the artistically welded
metal dragonflies on
it. Pink, yellow and white roses adorn top of the fence. She greets
me and Bentley, and tells me about how her dog was sprayed by a
skunk a couple of days ago—and what a disaster it was. Baxter
bolted into the house, rolled on the carpet, and rubbed against the
couch—mad with the nose-stinging stench. Sarah said the smell
still lingers in her dog's fur despite her extraordinary cleaning
efforts involving baking powder and Dawn dish-washing liquid.
Bentley is tugging on the leash, bored with this conversation, and
ready to get going.
In contrast to
Sarah's elegant well kept home, is the rental house across the
street, where several young guys in their 20's live. They play their
music loudly, put out recycling containers full of PBR cans, and
hang out in folding chairs and chat in the front yard in the
evenings. One evening, as Bentley and I walked by, I chuckled to
myself, as I overheard them comparing the relative rigidity of their
fishing poles.
We pass the old
slave cemetery. It has no headstones, only a simple memorial to the
multitudes who sleep below. I once wandered here around midnight,
on a misty night-- on a mission to release a mouse I had just caught
in a “have a heart” trap. I didn't want to hear it struggle in
the trap all night, so I went out with my coat over my nightgown. I
felt like a character in a mystery novel, sneaking out to the
cemetery at midnight. This morning, in the sunlight, there is a hawk
watching, perched atop a high tree. Perhaps my having a heart did
not stop the little mouse from meeting his fate after all...
Here comes Bentley's
friend-- little black and white Zoe, with the foxy ears, on the
retractable leash
held by her middle
aged “mom”. Zoe adores Bentley and starts bouncing and wagging
whenever she sees him, even though mom tells me she is 13 years old.
As the dogs entangle themselves in each others leashes, trying to
sniff each others behinds—Zoe's mom tells me she is moving out of
the neighborhood. This surprises me. She says she has a new man in
her life, and is going to move in with him. She does seem to have
more of a sparkle in her eyes, and she is wearing some pretty green
earrings. She seems like an unlikely candidate for romance-- in her
sixties, rotund and slow, with a limp in her step. “Do you mind if
I ask where you met?, I ask her somewhat enviously. “E-harmony”,
she tells me—the online dating site. They just got back from a
cruise together. She explains that while he didn't meet all of her
“would like to haves”, he does fulfill her “must haves”. She
says she attends Unity Church while he is a Baptist. They cancel out
each others votes. But he is a good person, she assures me, and they
are tolerant of each others differences. Hmmm, maybe I'm not so
jealous after all, I think to myself-- but I wish her all the best.
We disentangle our dogs, and continue on our way.
Coming towards us,
climbing up the hill, I see the 30-something, dark-haired man who
always looks down—literally and figuratively. His earplugs are in,
I'm not sure if he even sees me. He doesn't smile or in any way
acknowledge me or Bentley. This is odd, as most people will say
“cute dog” or “good morning”, or reach down to pat Bentley
on the head.
My neighbor,
Dave passes us slowly in his truck—coming home from dropping his
young son off at Carolina Friends School. Ryan is taking piano
lessons from me, and is making excellent progress. Dave rolls down
his window, greets me and Bentley, and complains that Ryan is waking
them up every morning by playing Reveille loudly on the piano. But
he smiles when he says it, so you can tell he loves it.
We pass the little
creek in the culvert by the left side of the road. Bentley begins to
sniff around interestedly. If you're lucky, you can sometimes spot
baby ground hogs here. Early one morning, I got to share my
excitement on seeing with a young mom pushing a stroller. We very
quietly watched the baby ground hogs, until Bentley strained towards
them, and startled them quickly back into their hole beneath the
roots of a creek side tree. Because I was so intent on watching the
groundhogs, I hadn't even peeked into the mother's stroller. After
the groundhogs disappeared, she proudly took out her new baby to show
me, and told me he was only nine days old. I thought that was pretty
exciting too, although Bentley was completely oblivious. No
groundhog sightings today, although Bentley's sniffer is going full
speed. He pauses to leave some nose graffiti. “Bentley was here!”.
Across the street, I
see my friend Laura's red brick house. The blinds are drawn, and
there are no cars in the driveway. She never seems to be home.
Although we are neighbors, I met her for the first time on facebook.
A little further down is Karen's little white house. Karen and I
have been acquainted since our now college age kids were in
elementary school together. Her cat, Cleo, is sitting outside by the
old Volvo sedan with the “Obama then and now” bumper sticker.
When she sees Bentley, she ambles forward to greet us. Bentley bends
his head down, as she rubs against him. It's so funny the way these
two seem to really like each other. I think it's partly because Cleo
is just so bold and walks right up to us. If she were to run away,
Bentley would no doubt want to chase her. On days when Cleo is not
outside, Bentley seems to be looking for her, gazing back longingly
as we walk by.
Now we see the dog
that Bentley doesn't like coming towards us. We stake out our
territory on the left side of the road, and I grab Bentley's leash
tightly, as the owner of the black lab does the same on the opposite
side of the street. Both males snarl and growl at each other,
straining to cross, just as a car passes between us. The blond
haired owner and I both mutter our apologies and wish each other a
nice day anyway.
I am planning my
day, as we cut through the parking lot of the large, brick Baptist
church and head out to King St. I'm calculating my finances,
considering errands I need to run—reminding myself to reschedule
Nora's lesson, and to email my mom. Bentley stops and
squats. I turn my head so as not to be rude. I wait for him to
finish, knowing the deed isn't done until he kicks some grass in its
direction. I found this out the hard way one time when I bent down
too soon, and got a face full of grass. I lean down, and expertly
scoop the steaming, well-formed turds into my politically correct
little white biodegradable bag. I look around for a trash can.
Fortunately, the doctor has left his out by the street, even though
trash pick up was two days ago. I sometimes feel guilty about
dropping these stinky little white bombs in other people's trash
cans. One morning, a homeowner apparently witnessed my
transgression. I glanced back, as we were a little further down the
street, and saw that she had gone out to investigate-- to lift the
green lid and peer in, just to make sure it wasn't a real bomb, I
suppose.
Now comes one of my
favorite parts of the walk. We walk on the sloping purple berry
stained sidewalk, as I search above for the juicy ripe mulberries—not
the red ones, but the purple ones. I grab hold of a branch and lower
it, so I can pluck and pop the sweetness straight into my mouth.
This taste reminds me of my childhood, of finding these berries wild
in an alley with my best friend as we walked to school.
I hear the
plaintive, low call of a mourning dove. In the distance, I spot
Bill, walking his German Shepherd up the hill of one of the side
streets. Shoot, I missed him. I have a little crush on Bill, a
handsome, friendly man about my age. But I don't run in to him very
often, and though he always smiles warmly, I'm not sure he remembers
my name.
We pass the big, run
down historic house that has finally been sold and is soon to be
remodeled. I was excited to learn that the new owner is Jim--
someone I had watched bring back to life an almost impossibly
derelict mill house that was sagging and falling apart—but had the
most enormous oak tree in Hillsborough in its front yard. Now it is
a cute little cottage with a handcrafted stained glass window that
Jim made himself. I look forward to watching him incrementally
transform this bigger place as well. He's not going to “flip”
this one, he told me the other day. He and his wife are actually
going to live in it. I should ask Jim to advise me on who to call
for my drainage issues in the front yard. I bet he would know. But
he doesn't seem to be around today.
Suddenly Bentley
jerks hard on the leash, practically tearing my arm out of its
socket. He barks like mad as he runs, pulling me to the base of a
large oak tree. He stands alert and attentive, his tail extended
back in a straight line, his nose pointing up, his right fore paw
bent slightly in a timeless, hunting dog pose. There is a slight
rustling in the leaves above us. Bentley leaps high up the tree
trunk, and although I am grasping the leash tightly, he seems to
believe he can levitate up the tree. He is baying loudly, a sound
that resonates throughout his whole body, as if he has found his
voice and is doing exactly what he is meant to be doing in this
moment. The whole world needs to hear this Important Announcement.
It is the most exciting thing that has ever happened: Bentley has
seen a squirrel!!
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