The walk in the park last night was not a walk in the park.
I’d pulled a muscle in my right leg. About halfway to the park, I noticed something odd: Ben kept stopping to look back at me. My old boy, who normally trots ahead like he’s got somewhere important to be, was waiting. For years, my senior dog walking routine has meant me speeding up so he doesn’t dawdle too long at every blade of glass. Last night, he was the one slowing down for me.
Our Walking Routine, Rain or Shine
Ben’s going to be 12 soon. He’s a rescue, and he came with exactly one rule about where he’ll do his business: the car porch at my mother’s house or the park. No backyard. No substitute. So, three times a day, every day, rain or shine, we go. Sometimes I hold an umbrella over him while I get soaked myself, because that always feels like the obvious way to do it.
When the Routine Meets an Injury
Last night, thinking about the walk ahead with my leg screaming in pain, I won’t pretend I was thrilled. I dreaded it a little, honestly. But skipping it never seriously crossed my mind. The only real question was how I’d get through it without making things worse.
Learning to Walk Slower
So, I babied it. I walked slower than I think I ever have, watching my own right foot like it belonged to someone else. I was trying to keep it from landing at just the wrong angle—the one that sends a jolt from heel to hip. Several times, I cried out. It’s strange, having to think that hard about something your body usually just does without asking permission.
I wrote something a few weeks back about hurting my index finger and how it made me notice all the little things I do with my hands. This felt like a cousin to that, but heavier. A finger is just a finger. This was a walk I owe to someone else—one that doesn’t happen unless my legs cooperate. For a bit, I wasn’t sure they would.
If I can’t walk, I can’t take Ben out. Simple as that.
What This Taught Me About Priorities
I kept turning that over as we made our slow loop of the park. People talk about priorities like a list you sit down and rank: family first, work second, whatever comes next. But this didn’t feel like ranking anything. Somewhere along the way, without my ever deciding it outright, our three-walks-a-day routine stopped being a choice. It just became one of those things I do, full stop—the way you don’t decide to keep breathing.
Ben’s getting older. My leg will heal in a few weeks. His slowing down isn’t the kind of thing that reverses. I wasn’t thinking about that mid-walk; I was too busy watching my foot. But it’s been sitting with me since.
Maybe that’s the real answer to what we won’t let go of. Not the big, obvious things we’d say out loud if asked. The small, unglamorous ones — an umbrella over the dog and not yourself, a foot placed carefully so it doesn’t buckle, a walk you take anyway because someone’s waiting on you to make it happen. Last night, after years of chasing after him, I finally understood what it’s like to have Ben wait for me instead.
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