I went for a walk yesterday and today.
I’ve befriended a neighborhood dog; his name is Dog (Version 5.0). He comes with me on the walks, and enjoys them with a very refreshing simplicity. When he wants to run, he does so with great vigor, kicking up dirt. Holes need to be explored, in depth, possibly with digging (what digs holes around here? Gophers? Prairie dogs?). Bushes must be smelled, and then peed upon. Birds should be fruitlessly chased.
I mean, he’s a dog. I’m not expecting calculus from him or anything.
But I wonder about these strange quadriped creatures. They run so fast — do they feel how fast they’re going, or does it feel like a walk to them? Do they process the world faster than we do, because they run faster than we do and so they have to? If they process the world more quickly, is it negatively compensated for by being processed more simply?
How does it feel to see the world as you run by on four legs?
And when Dog stops at the edge of the canyon drop-off, poses elegantly and artlessly and stares across Laguna Gulch and to the hills and cliffs beyond, does he recognize the beauty that surrounds him?
Or is he scanning for more bushes to pee on?
I like these walks.