Just got back from a mid-afternoon dog walk with Simone, the bulldog, Daffodil, the terrier mutt puppy and Genevieve, the little fashionista girl whose bangle bracelets kept sliding off her wrists – one, two, three – and whose pocketbook kept slipping from her shoulder every single time she bent down to examine a leaf, a stone, or a crack in the road, which was every few seconds…the bending down, the examining, the slipping off, the straightening up, the replacing of accoutrements. Walk, walk, walk. Repeat.
I constantly re-organized and held the two leashes, one a bright pink lead, the other a festive red. I held the poop bags, then the aforementioned pocketbook and the bangles, later the sweatshirt (because “I’m just too hot to wear the sweatshirt, Mommy. I told you I would be too hot on this walk in that pink jacket thing!”).
Like herding cats, really…which I’ve never done…but I know this walk was exactly like that. Exactly.
When we arrived back home, Gigi said, “I’m exhausted. I’m never going on a dog walk like that again. Next time you can just leave me home. I’ll take care of myself alone and you take care of the dogs alone.”