My daughter lives on a hill in the Castro District of San Francisco. She shares her life with a boxer/pug mix dog
named Mookie.
Mookie has, shall we say, certain steadfast habits.
When you tell him it is time for a walk—no matter where you are in
the house—he must run out into the kitchen and loop around the island counter
there. Only after he has accomplished this
are you allowed to calmly put on his harness and attach the leash.
While staying with my daughter, I have been taking Mookie for
walks on the street. His everyday walk
takes him down the inclined sidewalks to Market Street and then back up again
on the same route.
What this actually means is Mookie zigzagging all over the sidewalk. He needs to check out all of his favorite
spots to mark with his maleness. A
certain planter by the big steps. Three
big trees and one little one. The ratty
old telephone pole as you approach Market Street. The retaining wall with flowering plants
weeping down.
The idea is to let Mookie stop at all these places. Maybe let him circle a little before he
hoists his leg. After walking him a
couple times, I got the hang of it and turned into a pretty good human for him.
On a more recent walk, however, I made a mistake. On the way back up the hill, upon making the
final turn onto Helen’s street, I turned up the opposite side of the
street. I was thinking I might enjoy a
different view for the last leg of our walk.
Mookie froze solid as a block of lake ice.
He anchored there.
“You don’t want to try something new?” I asked.
I tugged a little.
Mookie would not have it.
Shrugging, I stepped off the curb to cross back over to our normal
path. Mookie unfroze and began pulling
me toward his number one sidewalk planter.
Good human.
—Mitchell Hegman
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