The Beloved

For weeks we've teased Walter with the idea of a Saturday morning free run at the baseball field. Today we delivered.

Holt and Birch came home from their Cub Scout camping trip this morning and we loaded up and headed out.

The park was all but deserted following the past two days of nothing but squall after squall. We have often thought that nothing would be better for him than to be completely unencumbered from his leash and to just take off (perhaps with the music from Born Free playing in the background). Truthfully, however, he pretty much had a 24 hour moment of this kind during his escape into the woods that ruined our Tybee Island/ Savannah stay.



We quite lightly tip-toed our way across the muddy infield into the grassy outfield, took off his leash, hollered "GO!" and... nothing. So, the kids took off running to see if he would make chase. He looked at them, cocked his head, and decided to go check out the dead leaves along the perimeter. Perhaps a foxy poodle had relieved herself there lately.

He did cross the field a time or two, but more like a Tennessee Walking Horse than a border collie. Birch finally said, "You're going to have to run, Suzanne, if you want him to". If you know Walter personally, then you know that he really should have been named Shadow. If I stop suddenly, he can quite literally traffic jam into my rear end.

So I ran. And he followed. And I stopped. And he stopped.


Herein lies the problem- there are no squirrels or chipmunks on the ballfields. Because the problem is not that he doesn't chase (He's come close to dislocating my shoulder several times during our romps through the woods. You can hear me for miles frantically yelling "LEASH! LEASH! YOU'RE ON THE LEASH!), but that he needs something that provides more of a challenge than a 40 year old that runs like a girl (because I AM a girl, perhaps) and a few kids.

But Holt and Carolina seemed to really enjoy themselves and THEY ran a lot (raced each other in fact) back and forth across the outfield.



He was finally content to plop himself down and wait for the ride home. There he lay, a dog of noble breed who refused his birthright of speed and grace, four orange socks and a mud-filled belly.




In the van on the way back, Holt said, "He would run after me if I was the one that he loved." That is a lip biter for me. I love that dog, but I really wish he was a normal dog that followed after the kids.

Birch commented, "Mama is the disciple that Jesus loved best."

To which Juliana replied, "Are we really comparing Walter to Jesus?"

"Loosely."

"We're comparing Mama to John."

"Oh."

And we were home. And until he can convince us that he is a border collie in nature and not just name, the rest of his park experiences will be at the end of a leash. Far away from mud holes.