An Empty Hand

Tonight while taking my dog Scout for a walk, it became clear to me that something was missing. Something important. Or rather, someone.

All through high school I loved to take my dogs for walks, often after dark and sometimes while sporting my heavy winter coat. Mali liked to walk right next to me while Scout liked to walk way ahead, as far as his retractable leash would allow. Both dogs walked on the sidewalk and I walked in the gutter. Because of where they walked, Mali's leash would be in my hand closest to the sidewalk, Scout's in the other. When we crossed the street, I traded the leashes between my hands to keep this arrangement.

Mali's eyes aged much faster than the rest of her body, so eventually I was carrying two leashes and a flashlight while walking the dogs. The flashlight would be in the same hand as Mali's leash so I could shine it right in front of her. I'm not sure if this helped her much, but it gave her human family some peace of mind.

walking in the foothills with Mali (right) and Scout circa 2008

Now, Mali goes for a walk almost every day, but not with Scout. Her eyes have failed her and she can no longer walk on the sidewalk without falling off, so she walks in the middle of the street. When I am home, I am often the one who takes her on these strolls, much shorter and slower than our nighttime walks used to be.

It makes me smile to watch Scout enjoy our long walks, still usually staying at the very end of his retractable leash. He knows the routes by heart even though we don't walk together nearly as often now that I am in college and don't live at home most of the year. He's a fun walking buddy, but I still can't help to realize that although Mali is still alive, she is no longer able to join us on our nighttime adventures. Regardless of which hand I use to hold Scout's leash, I am always left with an empty hand that reminds me of someone very special.