When Ya Gotta Go

I was venomous today, wallowing in the kind of mood that radiated out into my arms, turning my hands into fists and my elbows into knives. All I could think about was getting home and walking Duncan. Even though it always feels like a chore before I do it, Duncan is my yoga, my meditation, my Zen moment. He requires me to leave the day behind, from the instant he greets me at the door, as I change my clothes and tie on my runners to the moment I fasten his collar and take him outside.

We live across the street from Clement Park and quite near Raccoon Creek Golf Course so we have plenty of room to roam–although I will admit that I don't know if dogs are allowed on the greens so we have yet to venture there. Duncan loves The Park, and it's where we spend the majority of our walks. Lately it's been inundated by the after school kiddie football and soccer crowd so we're a bit limited in where we venture, but we always end up near the lake watching the ducks.

Today Duncan led me to one of the six baseball fields where we were treated to the sight of a five year old boy whipping down his pants and aiming his stream at second base. He was a modest chap and managed to keep his back to us at all times, turning as we edged along the perimeter of the field, but maintaining his perfect aim as he marked his territory. Second base was his. His coach and the rest of the team froze, watching him go, and it wasn't difficult at all to spot his mother; she was the woman whose hands were covering her entire face. She was too embarrassed to call his name. It was only when he finished that his coach said, "Okay, Cody, all done?"

Nothing was out of the ordinary for Cody. And Duncan seemed to understand better than anyone. When you've gotta go, you've gotta go.