We have a route that we walk with our four-legged family
members each evening: down the sidewalk,
across the street to the library parking lot, through the front of the library
to the side garden with the sundial, down a small access road that is hardly
used and around the town’s tennis courts, over a small wooden bridge, across
another parking lot and back to the library. The dogs know it well.
Our walk takes about thirty minutes with plenty of time to sniff trees,
grass, bushes and sign posts. On very
special evenings, when no one is on the tennis courts, the dogs run free
throughout the fenced-in areas. The best
time to visit the courts is after a storm when the players have quickly
vacated, leaving behind sodden, yellow tennis balls.
Charlie loves tennis balls.
He clutches a ball between his paws and peels the fuzzy material
away. He chases the balls, he catches
the balls, and when we won’t play with him, he bats the balls as hard as he can
with his nose and scrambles after them.
On
this evening, in the pause between storms, Charlie happily collected fourteen precious
tennis balls. The Englishman and I
counted them each under Charlie's watchful eyes and put them in a shopping bag. As we strolled home, Charlie stayed by my
side, nose up and happily leaping toward the bag that was dangling from my wrist. April 3rd was the best haul yet.
