Big Adventure

Over the weekend, my wife and I went out for some exercise. I ran over to Lake Merritt, where I met her and we walked around the rest of the lake together. On the way over the streets and sidewalks, I was alone with my thoughts, as usual. Once I came over the last hill and started to run around the path next to the water, searching out my wife's form in the distance, I became distracted. Distracted by dogs. It seemed that everyone had a dog but me. I looked left and right, and straight ahead. Everyone seemed to have a furry friend at the end of a leash. It reminded me of all the times I had made this same trip. I would leave the house in advance of my wife and child. They would put our dog in the back of the car and drive over to the lake. I expected to find the three of them not too far from the spot at which they had unloaded. In the earliest days, there was a stroller and a leash. Later there was no stroller, but then there were water bottles and sometimes a toy car or robot that needed to make the trip as well. I was fortunate in that I was only responsible for getting myself over the hill. All I had to do was keep running until we ran into one another.
On this day, my son did not make the trip. He was spending the weekend with some friends. No stroller. No toys. Our dog did not make the trip. She was gone too. To a better place. No leash was necessary. At least not for my wife and I. As we made our way around that heart-shaped body of briny water, I kept being distracted by all the dogs that weren't mine. I felt a little like Pee-Wee Herman when he got his bike stolen. As the reality of his loss begins to sink in, Pee-Wee suddenly feels surrounded by people on bikes: big, small, short, tall, even remote control. Everyone has a bike but Pee-Wee.
That's how I felt without my dog. When I saw my wife strolling toward me in the distance, I was greeted by her smile. It was a treat, as was the rest of our walk around the lake. And I tried not to notice all those dogs.