The walk

Because I'm the one left at home—everyone else is abroad or doing something—I trick Paul to come near me, and I tie his leash, first on his neck, with another hoop around his upper body, for good measure. He is strong and forgets he has a human to obey when he's out of the gate. He goes straight to the dirt road on the other street. He immediately chews on wild grass, and bows his head to smell whatever it is that dogs smell, raising his hind legs to pee to mark his territory. With my earphones on I listen to podcasts and greet passersby, occasionally speaking to Paul like I would to a child. The children adore Paul and pat him. Paul enjoys the attention. At the end of the road, the big black dog Victor growls at him. He was once Paul's best friend and now, for reasons unknown to everyone in the neighborhood, has become the fiercest enemy. I drag Paul away from the street and head over to ours—the quieter row of houses—and Paul realizes that he is getting older and more mature, and the bowl of fresh water is better than another round of walking.