"I walk Katie. She in the way."

My friend Chiara (whom I always refer to as "my friend Chiara" rather than just "Chiara") is out of town this weekend. She left Thursday and returns Monday from Orlando. In her absence--and before Turner and I leave for Nashville in a few hours--we get the honor of walking Zeus. He is a Great Dane (think Scooby Doo - skittish, but big and beautiful and friendly.

Zeus is the kind of dog for whom non-dog lovers like myself can grow a real affection. He obeys. He knows his name. He doesn't pester a person. He doesn't take off running without a good reason (normally a squirrel). He always comes back home. He stays in the yard and patiently waits for your next order. He loves the treats I offer him (most commonly deli meat). Most importantly, he likes me too, which is a real feat considering my distaste for dogs is normally reciprocal. I appreciate them from afar and always think I want one until they slobber or shed on me.

My friend Chiara has a neighbor who has a little dog named Katie. Katie is a really lucky dog because no matter what, Chiara takes her to the park and on walks with Zeus each time they go. She is not a dog like Zeus. She has much more energy, one-way conversations, and must be contained by a leash. I find her an aggravating pup, though she also has carved out a tiny piece of affection in my heart.

On to the story; I often get lost in the details. Turner and I take the dogs to the park yesterday after we walked them around the hood. Turner rides in the stroller with one dog serving as guard on each side. Normally when we walk the dogs they are sniffing everything, peeing every few minutes, stopping, and in general being dogs. Such is the case on our walk back home, but on the way to the park the dogs walk at a post on each side of Turner so that at any moment when he feels like it he can reach out and touch at least one of them. Katie meanders back and forth in front of the stroller from time to time, which requires me to remind her that she is in the way and needs to stay behind or beside us. She is a bit hard headed, but I forgive her. She lives with three other females, and I imagine it would be difficult to be around that much estrogen; I'm sure my dad and Katie would have a thing to discuss if dogs could talk.

I park the stroller in the grass about 200 yards from the playground equipment. Long enough to be an inconvenience, but short enough that it seems easier to park the stroller than push it through the tall grass. Turner wants to walk Katie, so I offer him the leash. Zeus and I stroll slowly around. He lunges toward a squirrel or two, but seems reluctant to flee my side. Katie is sniffing and peeing while Turner patiently stands with slack in the leash waiting for her. Occasionally I hear him talking to her, but I have no idea what their conversation consists of. After we swing and slide down the slide numerous times, Turner announces he is ready to go home. We gather the dogs and Turner again takes Katie's leash: "Look Mommy! I walk Katie." When we near the stroller I list several reasons Turner needs to get into it: it is starting to rain, his legs are shorter and his pace slower, Zeus and Katie are thirsty, I'm tired, he is tired, the police say it is a rule that little boys must ride in strollers. My rationalizing does not work. He thinks about these things a minute while I stand up from my must-talk-to-toddler-on-his-level stance. In a few seconds Turner pulls the slack out of Katie's leash, walks around the stroller and starts the descent down the sidewalk toward the bottom of the hill in the direction of home. To no one in particular he yells, "I walk Katie. She in the way." Of course! Our son usually has a relatively rational retort. Katie was in the way much of the walk to the park, and our trip home is more pleasant and we take a faster pace. Turner, again, discovers the solution to our problem.