The Best Treadmill I Ever Bought Was A Dog
Scott Burnett

Ten minutes into our walk we are pushing to the top of the second hill. It is less of an effort for my companion than it is for me. He has a lower center of gravity, and four points of contact with the earth. He pulls forward, keeping the leash and the muscles of my left arm taut. He is not trying to yank free; he is simply anxious to get on to wherever we’re going. At least, this is how I choose to see it.

At the gate to the pipeline trail there is a zinc-painted post. Around its base grows an unmowable tuft of scrub grass. For my dog, it is an olfactory NPR – one of his favorite stations along the way for sniffing out the day’s news. He plunges in nose-first, then looks up smiling, ears perked as if he’s heard the familiar chime of a wave file: “You’ve got mail…” Pee-mail, that is. He lifts his leg and replies to all.

I say, “C’mon!” and we’re on our way again. As far as I can tell, Boomer gives no thought to the mechanics of his gait. I, on the other hand, am trying to remember to keep my ankles square with my hips, and to leverage from my thighs in order to save wear and tear on my knees. Boomer darts to the left, making a lateral lunge for another exceedingly interesting mound of grass. I let out some slack from the leash, and continue walking. By now he knows the rhythm of my stride, and how long he has before the tug hits his collar, so he works quickly. Squirt-squirt. He’s just initialed an important document that is completely invisible to me. “Come!” and he’s back at my side, pulling ahead as if to imply that it was I who’d been sidetracked.

The gravel crunches underfoot like granola for breakfast. These walks have been good food for me: body, soul, and mind. Regular exercise does not come easily to me, but Boomer has reintroduced a long missing ingredient into the mix. Play. He makes me want to walk, and he gives me a reason to go even when I don’t feel like it. He is a spring-loaded, stinky-kissing, let’s-go-eyed, black-brindled reason to strap on my sneakers, don my fedora, and dive into the drizzly night. Gorgeous, pastoral summer days are very rare in our neck of the woods, so a commitment to consistent outdoor exercise is bound to be tested often.

But today is one of those rare perfect days that would make the whole world move to Seattle if word were to get out. Behind us are the Cascade Mountains, in front of us the Olympics. The manmade, flat-sided peaks of the cities are also visible, flashing reflected sunshine our direction. Close by, there are amply pastured horses, and beautifully landscaped estates. The dragonflies are back. The sun is hot, the breeze is cool, and the air is full of fragrances. Cut grass, manure, and a hundred varieties of flower converge upon my woefully sub-canine sniffer. I can only imagine the stories Boomer is reading on the wind.

Squirt-squirt. Boomer, to his way of thinking, now owns another strategic clump of grass along the trail. It seems like a good way of thinking to me. In fact, from this vantage point, my soul is inclined to lay claim to two mountain ranges, thousands of verdant acres, a salmon stream, and this well-kept trail running straight through the middle of it all.