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Kathy Bohannon Columnist

Published Sunday, November 20, 2011

Dog walk

Dyson the Terrible Puppy loves to go for a walk. He loves it so much that he has to make sure no one is going for a walk without him.

Several times during the day he will walk over to the leashes that hang on the wall by the back door and gaze up at them as if he is counting. One. Two. Three. I tremble to think what might befall us if he counts only one or two.

Sometimes, if the leashes are entwined he will nose them until he can count them properly. They unravel before his patient eyes as he taps them with his wet black nose. One. Two. Three. We watch as he turns away from the leashes only to glance at us as if he is satisfied that no one has gone out without him.

Yesterday I took the three dogs for a walk by myself. It is a big deal to walk the three stooges by myself, simply because of the combination of the one with limited eyesight (Kerby), the one that weighs more than 30 pounds (Hoover) and the one that has simply lost his mind (guess who) is anything but relaxing.

They are all Boston Terriers, but Dyson the Terrible has a mix of Heaven only knows what else in him. He has very short legs, one front foot that turns to the far right, a tail with a teeny white tip, a pointy nose and ears that hang down. And he's cute as can be.

Kerby is 12 years old and sports a gray muzzle. She finds her way around rather well considering her limited vision. She's an old girl and can be grumpy at times, but she saves most of that for the Terrible. Come to think of it, pretty much all of us do. She sleeps a lot and has always snored like an old fat man. We forget how loud it is until someone comes over that hasn't heard it before. As soon as her old bones hit that dog bed she starts her snoring. Sometimes she is hidden behind us and our visitor is too polite to ask what the noise is. Other times they pick right up on it and we have to pause our conversation so they can listen to the symphony that is Kerby.

Hoover (and yes, they are all named after vacuum cleaners, which is what happens when you let the husband name the dogs) is sweet and snuggly but he weighs a lot. The PSI -- or pounds per square inch -- of those feet must be about 18 pounds or more. I have no idea, but whatever weight is distributed between his feet keep me in bruises seven days a week.

Hoover will jump up in my lap carefully enough but if the Terrible happens by, Hoover might forget to be the sweet pup and use me as a springboard so he can fly across the living room and with any luck, land square on the Terrible. Hence, the bruises.

So rather than stretch out in my recliner, I see Dyson do his leash check and I take them for a walk. The blind, the crazy and the strong. The combination is somewhat disastrous but, silly me, I think their feelings might be hurt if I leave one behind, so I take them all. At the same time.

Kerby has taken to walking in grass rather than the paved sidewalks of our neighborhood. She trails along these days, perhaps because she is older or it could be she is wiser. To walk with the others means getting pulled along by Hoover while getting bodyslammed by Dyson the Terrible Puppy. I expect she has learned her lesson more than once and simply chooses to trail behind in safe bliss.

Dyson pulls so hard on the leash that his front feet come off of the ground. We use halters because of their short necks, so this is why he isn't sufficiently trained on the leash. To properly train him will mean putting a choke collar on and leaving the other two behind; two things I don't want to do.

Hoover pulls on the leash, but calms on command. He is, however, determined to "check the mail" left by every single dog that has passed by in the last month. We stop at every tree and bush to see if there's a message left for him.

Dyson pulls against his leash like the little dog in "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas;" his little feet in the air while the load he is pulling -- Hoover, Kerby and me -- are dragged behind. This is most annoying for Hoover who is usually on three legs at the time he is yanked back onto the sidewalk by his four legged crazy companion.

And this is the way our walks go.

In the evening Dyson will go over to "count" leashes. I look at them hanging on the wall and wonder if it is worth it. I look at those patient eyes and realize one thing despite the slowness of Kerby, the craziness of the Terrible and the strength and determination of Hoover -- it certainly is.

•••

(Kathy Bohannon is a Georgia Press Association award winner and regular contributor to the Newnan Times-Herald.)

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