Morning walks with our pack

 

Nov 29  2025

Morning Walks

I call him Sparky, because Rocky has been taken, in our pack.  Hi lives across the street, in this tiny hamlet of 10 houses.

I cannot label his breed, but I describe it like this.  He is large, white, with floppy ears.  He loves bouncing in the river.  Judging by his affectionate and playful manner, I think he is still a puppy, under a year old.  I still don’t know the motives of his owner that has led to this travesty.  This is an unrolling story; one day I will know.  Meanwhile, cautiously working with the permission of the owner, we go for walks at dawn with our pack.

Sparky lives at the end of a rope about six feet long, tied to a tree with an enormous trunk.  He has neither water nor food in his small space.  It is in the front of the house, so he gets to see the activities and daily routines of the neighborhood.  There he sits, lonely, wanting to be a part of it all.  The rope is tied to his neck, tightly.  No collar.

Junior wakes me up every morning, with enthusiasm for a long walk.  Junior is a gift to me, to be my companion at this phase of a long and lonely path.  He was born six years ago in my living room.  He is about ten kilos, a long body on small legs, the color of almonds. My knees bother me, and sometimes my hip, so I used to ignore him and walk from my bed to the kitchen in my bathrobe to make coffee.  But no more.  Perhaps I am finally growing in my spirituality.  I listen to his tender spirit, and am doing better in living in harmony with it.  He is an old soul.

There is another dog living with us.  His owners gave him the name ‘Loki’.  I gauge him to be about nine years old.  He is small boned, curly haired.  Breeders of poodles would call him ‘apricot’ in color.  He is a damaged tender soul; perhaps he finds us soothing company.  Junior, so possessive of me, has grown to accept him, and has been known to intervene for him with me.

These three are our pack, plus Rocky.  Rocky also lives across the street from us.  The lady there has never found a way to say ‘no’ to any dog that chooses her company.  Most are small things, but Rocky is large.  He is black, fine boned like a doberman and as tall as Sparky.  I guess he must act out occasionally, because sometimes I see him tied up in her yard. 

Sylvia’s adult daughter, Perla, lives next door to Sparky, with Sylvia. She tells me of hearing him cry in the night, alone at the end of a rope.

I appreciate the fact that dogs, like horses and yaks, need a daily dose of exuberant running.  The little ones can tear up and down our dirt road to fill that need, and no one will mind.  But the big dogs terrify some people just by their size, and so live under restraint.  Rocky gets to walk often with his household pack and humans, but it is not the same.  These chihuahuas and other small blended breeds move at a much slower pace.

One day, while Junior, Loki and I were walking at early morning, I saw Sparky, legs planted wide, tongue hanging out as he grinned, rope still secure on his neck but loose trailing behind him, looking at me.  He stood on the grass verge of the dirt road, two doors down from his enclosure.  He wanted to join us, his intention was clear.  I unhooked his choking rope and let it fall; we three moved on.  And then suddenly, the black Rocky was bouncing alongside us.  His pack had once again worked a hole into Sylvia’s fence, and so he was free.  From then on, we were a pack of four.

Junior always tried to lead us along the two kilometer road to our former home, where he was born.  Two miles round trip might be doable on a smooth trail, but this was a rocky, rutted. dusty course putting extra stress on my knees.  Not to mention, during my eight years here the community has let grow wild the stream that crosses that road.  Weeds started growing up along its path.  What happened could have been prevented by a couple of men in rubber boots and hoes working for less than an hour.  Instead, the weeds grew across the path of the stream, so the stream meandered wide as it worked its way around the choking weeds.  Now that strip of road is always flooded, no longer the easy pass for motorcycles and low city cars.  In my walks I used to be able to hop the rocks where the water fell after crossing the street.  There is no longer such an easy crossing for pedestrians.  Junior didn’t mind the change. He has an intrepid love of water.

For these reasons, we could not follow Junior’s preferred walk.  We still, however, have many options.  Running parallel to our double row of houses on our dusty street, a river flows; the continuation of that same stream.  It is wild and untamed in terms of growth on the banks, but not of its force;  it flows gently.  There used to be walking paths along its banks, in the old days when people walked long distances.  But now the banks are overgrown, and in spots unpassable. 

Down a ways on our dusty street, between adobe walls, there is a path that leads to the river.  It rambles past abandoned shacks, houses and abandoned orchards.  In this town we are known for our apples, but there are also many pear orchards.  I have tried the pears, and find them unpalatable unless peeled and cooked for a long time in sugar water.  However, the other morning on our way to the river I dared to trespass into such an orchard.  It is autumn, and the trees are mostly bare.  But on closer inspection, I found an occasional hanging pear not rotted yet; I picked one and ate it on our walk.  It was crisp, juicy and sweet.  Again I was reminded of what we have lost in our modern era of transporting to the masses a large variety of foods not indigenous to the distant markets.  They are harvested before they are ripe, to endure the rigors of transportation.  Only farmers know the true mature flavor of many otherwise now popular produce.

The dogs are romping through the brush, noses to the earth.  They occasionally gather around a rock wall, snuffling and whining.  As I approach I hear the squeak of a small critter.  A squirrel, perhaps, a chipmunk, a rabbit.  I cannot tell. I shoo the dogs along.  We reach the river bank; we can go left, or right.  To the right, beyond a few paces, the bank becomes wild and unpassable.  We always go left, towards the flat bridge that spans the river and leads to the main street of our little hamlet, and to the farms beyond.

 We pass an old dug out pit, filled with leaves and debris.  I imagine filling it with firewood upon which we have lain well prepared lamb, gleaned from the local flock, and left to cook overnight. 

As a vegetarian, even I see that as plausible.  We would ask the permission of our animal to give us his life.  We would slaughter him as quickly and painlessly  as possible.  His hide would be cured, and used in service to the community.  As I savor the remembered taste in my mouth, delicious and nourishing, time melts away and I am in a different space entirely.

At last we reach our homes.  Sparky finds the bucket of water that Sylvia leaves in front of her gate, and drinks deeply.  He then heads for his yard, and allows me to hook him once again to his restraint.  I finally have bought him a halter, since the owner ignored my suggestion that he do that.  It pains me an inch less to hook him up, but it doesn’t lessen the pangs I feel for the rest of the day.  I go about my day listening to his high pitched whines, pleads that go ignored.  If he barks continuously, I check; he is thirsty, and sends me back home to carry a pitcher of water to him.

The other day I happened to be outside when this neighbor arrived.  We leaned against his car and talked.  Why must he always be tied up?  Why have you not finished the enclosure in your backyard? 

Apparently, this dog bit a man.  [this information starts an unraveling string of questions, unspoken.  What did the man do to aggravate the dog?  Who was this man?  Was it our ‘village idiot’—he is not an idiot, just rotted his brain on glue at an unfortunate age, and now as he wanders homeless he struggles with the local dogs-?  How is keeping him tied up going to change this behavior?].  Every inch of the conversation gets derailed with this theme.  But he bit a man!  I don’t want to be responsible for that happening again.  Such is the logic of this man, who owns an unwanted and abandoned dog.  As for the backyard, he insists that ‘people’ go back there and let the dog out.  This, too, triggers an inner dialogue that remains unspoken.  The man is clearly not operating on logic.  He has his mind set. 

If I can manage to have another opportunity with this man, I must ask:  why not give the dog away to a family that could love him and care for him?  Or perhaps bring about a change of heart; invite him to come with us at 7 a.m. and get to know a different side of this magnificent animal.

Meanwhile, I do what I can to alleviate the pain of another sensient being.  I have consulted with the videos of Cesar Millan on how to change his behavior of jumping on me.  I am small, and he bowls me over with his affection.  So we start there. 

Each day presents another opportunity to share the joy and exuberance of four delightful creatures.  Sparky is young.  His story is still developing.  We bring each other hope for a brighter tomorrow..