The evening walk

About a half hour ago I was sitting at my computer in a nasty, lethargic funk, not thinking I had the energy to post on the Dispatch and feeling sorry for myself about ever starting a business because here I am in hock up to my eyeballs and having to stockpile long hours now so I can afford to shutter the office for the week between Christmas and New Year’s when my industry is dead anyway.

Then I felt that warm, moist nose nudging my knee. One look and I knew. Quit yer complaining and get off yer duff, Bones. Your dog is telling you she has to go for a walk and your compliance is nonnegotiable.

So out the back door and down the driveway we went, into the Sleepy Hollow night. Ilsa the wonder dog has 3 distinct walking speeds, one each for the morning, afternoon, and evening jaunts. In the morning she’s her most hyper, pulling me like a sled dog on speed to Patriot’s Park for our usual game of fetch. In the afternoon she’s a bit mellower, allowing me to take the lead on excursions down Beekman Ave. toward the Hudson River and our ultimate destination, the Lighthouse Coffee Co., where I purchase a pick-me-up to go.

Evenings the pace slows to a crawl. The last walk of the day is really not about walking at all but rather about taking stock of where we are. Ilsa sniffs the ground intently and I draw slow, deep breaths of air. I survey the old Victorian and Gothic Revival houses on our street and then look out past the rooftops to the scattered lights on the hillside in the distance and finally on up to the stars, more visible here than they ever were in the city that never sleeps.

Tonight on our walk Ilsa sniffed the ground and I allowed my funk to take leave as I studied the outdoor Christmas displays on our block. White-wire-mesh deer figures strewn with white lights are popular this year. One guy with small children has gone all out with a cavalcade of Christmas figures on the front lawn and every tree, bush, and eave decked out in lights. The old man who always says hello has hung old green garlands and old red bows along the fence marking his property; outside his front door stand two tall plastic candles dating probably to the ‘50s but which still work. And near the corner, outside the oldest, most worn-down house on this block of old and worn houses, a single electronic star hangs suspended over the front porch, reminding me of home.