Carol Baskins

Whose walk is it anyway?

Who knew the debate about whether older parents are better would be kicked off by a couple of little bitches.

“If I take Susan on a walk after she has been at your house, she wants to stop everywhere and sniff everything,” the Boy said.

“You’re not marching with the Wehrmacht through Poland,” I said. “You can stop and let your little dog shit in peace.”

At least one little bitch (Carol fucking Baskin) wants to stop for a sniff. The Boy’s dog, Susan, has been trained to match her master’s pace.

Where the fuck did my son get the idea walking the dog must be a forced march at double time.

From his parents of course. The wife and I marched him from soccer to swim practice. From bass lessons to his Boy Scout Eagle project. There was no stopping and sniffing for him. It was hurry up and get this shit done or get your ass out there and run.


Because it left him tired and just a little miserable. Just enough to keep him from bugging us or getting into too much trouble. A busy boy, is a boy who mostly keeps out jail (mostly — but the fire in his junior high bathroom was not “his fault.”)

We had him when I was 27. When I still had some energy and hopes for humanity. The wife and I were driven to raise a “good kid.” We were both teachers, and we weren’t going to add another asshole to anybody else’s classroom. That meant lots of regulated schedules, organized activities and doing things with a “purpose” — including kicking his ass in driveway basketball.

I got this little fucking chiweenie when I was 58. When my energy was on low, and my hopes of humanity were on fumes. Thanks Trump!

So my take on raising our canine daughter is different than what we did with our semi-human son. (Savage DNA may or may not be responsible for the “semi ” part.)

Carol sets the schedule for me. Long slow mornings with sleeping in past 8 — sometimes past 10 on weekends. She insists on afternoon walks or she cries like Baby Huey with diaper rash. But walks are all about the dog. She stops when she wants. She pulls across the street or follows any smell. She drags me down the cut-de-sac to see her boyfriend (Milton the Schnauzer).

It’s her time to get out of the crazy house and see her little part of the world. Mostly with her nose. Humans go crazy in an isolated cell or get depressed from loneliness. Dogs need something to sniff or they lose their fucking canine minds.

In the last few months, the Boy ran out of coffee at his house. So he drops Susan at mine, drinks half my pot (with a shot of Reddi-wip) and takes off for the day.

He left me with the dual leash he bought on Amazon.

The world’s smallest sled team, less than 15-pounds-per-dog, pulls on their elastic reins.

Now it’s a tag team of dogs trying to walk in opposite directions at the same time. They come home tired and a little miserable. Just enough to keep from bugging us or getting into too much trouble.

But now that I’m an old fart, I don’t force the dogs like I did the kid. Dogs mostly do as they will. Chase a cat, flush the doves (the dumbest of all birds). Bark like a little gang at innocent canines trying to pee on a tree. Fine.

It’s their walk. Not mine. It only took me 30 years to learn this lesson. Sorry Boy.

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