The Longest Walk
Originally published September 27, 2018 in The Providence Journal
My vote was no, so I should be OK.
That’s what I tell myself as I make my way up the brick walkway that leads to our house. The fact that I had to go back 17 years to find this reassurance for myself is troubling, back to when the dog was just a wish, albeit a persistent one coming from our 8-year-old daughter. That was when I voted no. And why wouldn’t I? Life was already complicated enough with two kids, two businesses and barely enough time on any given day to catch my breath. Who would willingly make that life more complicated? Who would willingly want even more activity, more responsibility, not to speak of the scratches on the furniture and the accidents on the floor?
But as so often happens in families, my will gave way to the majority, the enthusiasm for a pet winning the day and bringing a black Labrador puppy into our lives. Upon her arrival, Lizzie quickly proceeded to make all my predictions and new ones come true.
More activity? Oh yes. Lizzie came leaping and bounding into our home, jumping and running, wiggling and squirming and getting into things left and right. Quickly, we had to change our ways to keep up with her. We started walking every day, at least a mile, maybe two, to help channel her energy and boost ours. We became more playful, the kids inventing games like “Ring the Doorbell” which got Lizzie running to the front door while they hid under the pillows on the couch or the blankets on the bed until she sniffed them out, not hard to do with all their giggling. We found ourselves going to the shore to throw sticks for her to fetch out of the ocean, to the path in the woods where she’d uncover treasures like dead mice, and out to romp in the snow, no matter how cold the wind might blow.
My vote was no, so I should be OK.
I keep saying this to myself over and over and over again as I step up to the front door trying to remember my objections from all those years ago.
A pet is more responsibility. That’s what I had said and how true. But what I could never have envisioned was that Lizzie would become the first truly shared responsibility for our family, for all four of us. On some days, I would take her along on my morning run or if that didn’t happen, get her out for a walk and prod the others to join us. My husband made sure she got her shots and to vet visits on time and was always looking out for her health and safety. The kids were enthusiastic helpers when it came to playing and feeding and maybe not so enthusiastic when all that food ran its course, although they did manage to get her outside when she needed to get there.
Yes, I’m sure there were the occasional scratches on the furniture and accidents on the floor but I can’t remember them clearly now. What I do recall is the banana bread steaming hot out of the oven, sitting there on the counter to cool and I turned my back for just a moment and poof! It was gone! Or the times I would find her napping in the sunlight on the living room rug with one kid or another sleeping by her side. Then there was her nose in the dirty dishes, her collar somehow snagged in the dishwasher, beyond scared as she ran off with a rack of cups and plates pursuing her all around the house, clattering and shattering as she went. So many memories. I have to stop.
My vote was no, so I should be OK.
I open the door and walk down the hallway. For some reason, I’m keenly aware of my footsteps on the wooden floor, my heart beating in my chest, my thoughts scattering here then there. There is the water in her bowl, the biscuits on the counter, the toys cascading from her basket, the oversized L.L. Bean bed with LIZZIE embroidered on its side sitting in the corner of the family room. But there’s no greeting, no wagging, no commotion, no I’m-so-happy-that-you’re-home-I-can-hardly-contain-myself romp around the house that never seemed to grow old. Even long after she did. There’s none of that. No more. All gone. All empty.
My vote was no and God was I wrong.
And the part about being OK?
Not even close.