My dog, Cooper, and I are part of a secret society. More secret than the Illuminati or Masons, we are night walkers. Yes, we walk, almost exclusively, after the sun has set. Because Cooper is half-German Short-Hair Pointer and half-Labrador, he can be a bit, umm, pushy, and literally nudge me as the sun sinks behind the mountains, trying to prompt me to walk earlier. Nine times out of ten, I ignore him, reminding him we only walk once it’s completely dark. He knows how things go if we leave too early, which is, putting it mildly, not awesome.
Don’t let the late hour of our walks fool you. He’s a fantastic dog. He loves humans and in spite of his lineage, adores birds, too. The only time I’ve ever seen Cooper snap was when our cat, Romeo, approached his supper as he sat in ‘Wait’ for permission to eat. Even then, he only snarled and snapped at the air, feet away from Romeo, a warning shot across the bow.
Cooper and I walk at night when the streets of Kirkland are mostly deserted. Yes, we socialized him as a pup. He loves other dogs, or did until he attended a month-long boot camp. The best we can fathom, he suffered a traumatic event there. The trainer owned a small dog and when we picked up Cooper, we noted scratches on his face. The trainer said they were from berry brambles, but they had the distinctive look of small teeth. Since that time, seeing another dog on a walk sets him off on a barking spree. God forbid, a dog surprises him, popping out of an alley or whatever! Cooper pulls on the leash and barks. He is almost pure muscle, so when this happens, it hurts me. In fact, in early November, I had to tug back with all my might to maintain control and ended up pulling a muscle.
As I’ve been recovering, I use two leashes now, one in each hand, and keep Cooper in training mode with small bits of cheese for the duration. We’ve had an excellent six weeks. My body’s healed and Cooper has responded well to the training. Last week, though, was almost a devastating blow. A snowball Golden Retriever zipped out of an alley and ran down the block at us, unleashed, tail wagging. His owner shouted, “He’s friendly! He’s friendly!” which I had no doubt was true. Problem was, I didn’t know how Cooper would react.
I barked back, “But Cooper’s not. Get control of your dog!” I took off jogging with Cooper, who looked back at the dog only once, without issuing even a growl. I was proud of him, but also angry at the dog owner. Off leash is not fair on city sidewalks. It says to my dog, you must defend your owner against an animal that’s free to attack from any angle. I don’t care about voice control. It only takes one bite.
Cooper and I aren’t alone. There are other dogs in the neighborhood that are only walked after nightfall. I feel a kinship with them. Are they like Cooper and triggered by other dogs? I’m not sure. But, there’s a group of German Shepherds, Rottweilers, Pitbulls, and variety of small breeds that like us, avoid running into others.
We are the freaks. The folks that love a storm because that means we will have the streets to ourselves. Our dogs wear sturdy harnesses with ‘oh-shit’ handles sewn on the back. Us walkers wear gloves to avoid friction burns in our palms. We don’t like to be surprised, and we can’t ever shout a ‘Hello!’ or wave across the street without setting off our sensitive best friends.
If you ever encounter one of us freaks of the night, a simple smile is appreciated, and a half-block of distance. I promise, we love you and are happy to see you, too.