Tethered

Back in 2008, researchers in Australia published a study linking dog ownership to decreased childhood obesity. This evidence has provided an extended stay of execution for old Fenway. In the chaos of the past year, the urge to get rid of the dog has been powerful. Somehow, the mutt has surprised us all and managed to keep herself out of the pound. It may be that I have managed to hang onto my impulsiveness when it comes to her welfare.

Most of us don't need a scientific study to confirm the health benefits of having canine companions in the family unit. After all, they just have to have that walk. Rain or shine, the dogs have to go out.

On the nights when my son stays with me, I pick him up either at his dad's place or at school. By the time we fight through rush-hour traffic and tumble through the door, all either of us wants to do is collapse in a heap on the carpet and play legos until bedtime. But the dog. Oh, that dancing, delighted lump of fur. She greets us, panting and turning in circles, having waited nearly twelve hours for the singular pleasure of emptying her bladder. We don our sneakers, grab the leash and the plastic bags, and head out for a turn around the cul-de-sac.

Now that the snow has melted  and a slice of daylight remains, we are venturing almost every evening into a small patch of woods nearby. When these houses were built along the Difficult Run watershed, someone had the forethought to protect the flow of the creek. A few acres of unmarked, undeveloped green space stretch along behind the homes. Down in the leaves and budding shrubs, Fenway can bound after deer while Bug balances on logs. We all follow raccoon tracks along the banks of the creek, root around in hollow stumps, and weave our way through pricker bushes. For a good thirty minutes every evening, my kid and I follow a snuffling canine out for this enforced stretch. She keeps us moving.

This is a reason to keep the dog. But this is not the reason. When we first arrived here, the prospect of hanging on to her seemed impossible. Who would care for her when I was working? How would I fit in her shots and grooming and getting to Target to buy the gigantic bags of Beneful? Just packing a lunch and dressing my kid for school were dauting tasks. What did Fenway give our family other than one more headache? The needs of the dog seemed too much for this burdened mama to manage.

On a weekend last fall when my parents were traveling, I asked Tee for help caring for Fenway. He refused. "You know," he said to me. "I wanted to get rid of her when we moved." What he failed to mention in this exchange was that "get rid of her" meant one of two things. Either I would have to seek out a good home for her because he was too blown apart even to get up and dressed every day, or I would have to take her to the Humane Society for a near-certain euthenasia.

Tee's chilling admission brought on an odd realization. Fenway had beome my responsibilty. The noise of the dramatic weather patterns up above can deafen a person to the changes down below as the small stuff clicks into its new configurations. I have to kill the spiders now and air my own tires. Sure, the dog has, in many ways, always been my responsibility because I was the one home. But in separating from Tee, the pooch truly had become mine. Was I prepared to take her on so totally?

Of course. Fenway is not a set of dishes that can be donated to Goodwill. She is a living creature, a part of our family, a life. We adopted her well before we had our son. Bug has grown up with that dog. Through four different homes in four different time zones, the only consistent things in his world have been his mom, his dad, and that dog. For all his unknowing abuse of her, she has never once snapped at him. She has walked faithfully with us on every hike, kept us feeling secure when Tee was traveling, and been a joyous -- if skittish --  playmate.

What message would it send to my son if I simply got rid of Fenway? "Our lives are too complicated to care for a member of our family?" Or, "when the going gets tough, abandon your loved ones?" How about, "Lives are expendable? "

I would rather my child learn that we always have room in our home and our hearts (and, alas, even our full schedules) to care for members of our family. We can make time to meet our commitments to one another, even if doing so is inconvenient. Caring does not always emerge spontaneously and naturally. As Nel Noddings reminds us, an ethic of care must be cultivated, and we each must learn to listen to the voice of obligation as a sign that caring is within reach.

Attening to the needs of others is as much a habit of the mind as it is one of the heart. Like so many other practices, the rewards of care may not be immediately evident. But they exist deep in the bones of the routine itself. Every night, I walk Fenway. I walk her because she must be walked; I walk her because it is my job. No matter the sharpness of the wind or the weariness of my feet, I walk her. Yet, each night, I discover all over again where I really am. The dog's need acquaints me with the phases of the moon, the state of the foliage, the cycles of local wildlife. (Tonight, incidentally: waning, budding, peepers).

Change is inevitable. This is something that both bears remembering and bears forgetting. I must prepare myself and my son for transitions we cannot see coming but most certainly will. Also, I must nurture the home and family we inhabit in this moment as if this is the only moment we have. Because, ultimately, it is.