Vic Socotra

08 July 2008

Morning Walk

It was cool before dawn on the first walk of the day. I was thinking about gangsters, and the story I was not going to get to this morning, and it was not until we hit the glass doors that I realized I had forgotten my glasses. There is a lot of stuff to get organized for our expeditions, coffee, treats, keys, shoes, plastic bags, lighter cigarettes, phone that it is quite an adventure, considering I am still mostly asleep.

The Dog was excited to get out, the world being new for him each day, and he took off briskly along the Route 50 front of Big Pink.

He forgets why we are out, after his morning imperatives are taken care of, and he took his sweet time ambling along, sniffing. He likes the morning air, when the burden of his fur coat is not so stifling

He inspected all the shrubs on the ornamental verge between the building and the buzzing traffic headed downtown. People are back at work with a vengeance after the holiday, and the Monday back had not been pleasant.

It seemed like the whole City was attempting to re-learn English as a start to the new week, and hence communications were difficult. They are with the dog, too, since he pretends not to understand me when I tell him not to lurch off the curb into the service drive where the cars accelerate onto the ramp to blast into through traffic.

The sunrise is blocked by the bulk of the building, and the big grassy area between the churches stays dim and cool. The dog looked around at me to see if I would object to an extended ramble, hoping I had no place in particular to be early. We did a lazy figure eight around the church property, sniffing the dumpster where the feeding program puts the waste from the evening meal, and sniffed the Volkswagen where the homeless man keeps his stuff.

We have met the ghosts this last week, the wraith-like figures marching west across the parking lot with their plastic sacks of belongings. I think the dog figured it out before me, and paid them no more mind that he would of a passing zephyr. The ghosts must spend the night in the bushes or exterior stairwells, and like spirits, they passed us and vanished before we got to the sidewalk at Arlington Forest, where the old little boxy houses begin.

The dog took the route back on his own, with no coaxing. He is moving slow from the arthritis, though he still has some spark, at least early in the morning journey.

I realized he was headed for the unit where the Queen of the Dogs lives. She hands out treats to all the local canines who visit, and the steps to her place are graven in the Dogs little brain. He dragged me to the walkway by the silent pool, the blue water reflecting the bright underwater lights on the surface smooth as glass. He stopped in front of the Queen’s residence, peering hopefully into the dimness. The drapes were pulled, and the door was shut as tight as the tomb.

It only took him a couple minutes to figure out that no one was going to emerge with a handful of chewy treats.

We reached the part of the walk when I had to coax him with little bits of fake beef jerky to get him to the rear entrance to the building, though the security door and into the Elevator of Doom.

A couple years ago, when he was friskier and I was not attuned to the complexities of the walking ritual, he had taken advantage a momentary distraction and entered the car by himself. I should have felt the coils of the leash play out of the reel sooner, and by the time turned to look at what he might be up to, I realized that the doors were sliding closed and that he was going to be off to the eighth floor, driven upward like a piston, still connected to handle of the leash in my hand.

I had nothing to cut the cord. Nothing to keep him from being crushed.

The horror of the situation grabbed me like hand around my heart. I lurched to the button and pressed it for dear life. Amare the Ethiopian concierge actually leaped over the front desk to pry at the elevator door as I pressed on the button for dear life- his life.

It took only perhaps twenty seconds for the ancient machinery to cycle, an endless period, if you stop and count each one with dread, and then the door slid open again, and there he was, looking back at us with curious brown liquid eyes, asking what the big deal was and where was his treat.

I make a practice of straddling the door so it cannot close on him now, and there have been no untoward incidents since.

It does make you think, which is not one of my strong points on the morning walk. It certainly is now, at least the part dealing with the elevator.

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