Morning Walk

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!!