A Walk Deferred

The reflection in the bathroom mirror is me and yet not. If I were looking into a pool of water I'd place my hand into it and stir it up and start over.

Inside, where I register the aches and pains, I acknowledge my chronology. Outside I am building a facade with the help of my barber, a better diet and my exercise regimen. Hamilton, my dog, is integral to this external development. Since we adopted him almost four years ago I have lost over 160 pounds, the average weight of entire races of people. People were always commenting on how much younger I looked. My walks with Hamilton were as responsible for my improved health as the sensible diet and my short cropped hair and beard.

Since Hamilton's heart disease was diagnosed, our walks have been ratcheted back. As he has been recuperating, I have been walking him at the frequency and the length of his endurance. We started a couple of times a day for five to ten minutes. On our walks people commented how tired he looked. Some people were surprised that he was only three-years old.

I always took my lead from him. If he wanted to go home I would immediately head that way. If he did not want to go out at all, we stayed at home. You could not miss his intentions.

The dog that could not wait to go out, who would wag his tail furiously and bound to the door the moment I picked up his leash, would now look at me with his head down, ears back and walk away to lie down. Looking at him splayed on the floor I saw what I expected too see of myself in the mirror - a person without fight, marking time with the daily passing of light and shadows.

We gradually added a third and then fourth walk and the duration and distances became more typical, averaging twenty to thirty minutes each. He was improving with the medicine. He walked with his head and ears up, a bounce to his stride. He no longer deferred his walks. Whatever we felt in the inside we were both putting up a gallant front.