Today, like every day this week, I went outside to escape my studio apartment during this era of social distancing. And today, like every other day, I saw a dog. Dogs make me happy because they know nothing. They’re moved by instinct and good smells. They are who I want to be right now. This dog, in particular, had swagger. She was scrawny, no more than four or five pounds. She was maybe a dachshund, although that’s just an educated guess I made after googling “breeds of tiny dog long body.”
This dachshund trotted alongside its owner, a middle-aged woman in a yellow t-shirt. The woman was on the phone, probably talking about the only thing we’re all talking about. Mid-conversation, she and the dachshund reached a fork in the sidewalk. To the right was a shaded street with row houses and modest gardens. To the left was pretty much the same except uphill and without the tall, stooped trees. Going right made for a more pleasant walk, I thought.
The dachshund agreed. The woman tried to walk left, but the dog went right. When the woman noticed the leash was taught, she looked down and saw the dachshund insisting on its preferred route, its silver-dollar-sized paws planted on the pavement. An impasse.
The woman had options. She could’ve scooped the dog into her arms or tugged on the leash and called the bluff. But she didn’t. They locked eyes. Both skilled diplomats, they reached a silent agreement. They walked to the right, the dog’s pipe cleaner tail wagging in victory. A small thing changed the will of a giant thing, and they both were better for it.