Walking the Dog

I was given my own bedroom when I was nine years old. It was an eight by ten foot room with no door off the kitchen, next to the bathroom. It was quite a privilege as our entire flat was about twelve hundred square feet for my parents, my little sister and myself. My parents had originally used it for storage before my father squeezed a single bed into it. He also managed to fit two tall chests for my clothes.

I immediately sequestered myself in my room and sat in my bed reading my comic books and broadcasting my imaginary variety show which was a combination adventure program featuring my comic book heroes and sport show relating the exploits of my beloved White Sox.

A year after I had moved into my own room my mother passed away. At first my sister and I were moved upstairs to stay with my aunt and her family while my father sorted things out. This was good for me as I became frightened about being downstairs. Eventually we did come back to our flat and I returned to my room. But there was an addition. A television now sat on one of the chests. My own television to watch what I wanted when I wanted.

I couldn't wait for the weekends. My father let me stay up as late as I wanted as it was not a school night. I doubt my mother would have approved of this arrangement. On Friday and Saturday nights the only light you would see from our flat late into the night was often the blue-hue of my television screen. On these nights I was introduced to the movies that are now considered cult classics.

Coming on after midnight The Late, Late Show televised old movies from the 1930s and 1940s. I would watch the Marx Brothers, Humphrey Bogart, Fred Astaire and so many others until dawn. I felt so grown up watching these movies when so many others were sleeping I saw myself as a sophisticate like the people being portrayed on the tube. I couldn't wait on those weekend nights for the strange tune that announced the beginning of The Late, Late Show's broadcast.

Walking the Dog was composed by George Gershwin in 1937 for a Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers musical Shall We Dance. Of course I had no clue about this history back then. I just knew that the tune, with its metronome beat, announced my favorite show, despite its strange time of day. The tunes soft, insistent beat, reinforced my sense of time elapsing. I always watched the movies with an eye on the clock, dreading the coming of dawn and the last credits before the station segued to its morning programming.

Now the night time ritual I look forward to is walking Hamilton. I love my evenings walking with him through the quiet streets. Dog trainers emphasize how important it is to regularly walk your dog. It establishes your role as pack leader and reinforces those bonds so important to a dog's psyche.

Particularly during our evening walks I am reminded about how special it is that I have Hamilton as my companion. He stays at my side, ears back, following my pace and commands as we maneuver through the warren of downtown Manhattan streets. When he does something good, like stopping and sitting at street corners until I tell him its safe to cross, he looks up at me with bright eyes, his tale wagging. I fulfill my role of protector and leader and give him a treat and he fulfills his, eagerly taking it from my hand before starting off looking for some other way to please me. And all the time Walking the Dog plays in my head as clearly as if it were on my I-Pod.