My sweet boy does not like to get his tootsies wet. I stand on the damp patio with treats and coax him. Should that fail, I get his leash, dangle a treat in front of my reluctant boy, and lead him protesting the entire while into the back yard. He will grudgingly pee, but he isn’t happy about it and harrumphs indignantly when we get back inside.
In rain consisting of a heavy drizzle—an oxymoron borrowed from a friend in California—to light but persistent precipitation, Ivan trots down the street, but only for a couple of houses. By the third mailbox, he’s ready to turn around and go back. When we get close to our driveway, he drags me across the street and speeds up, towing me determinedly past the driveway, slowing to his normal pace only when we are officially beyond the driveway and near the fire hydrant at the house diagonally across from ours. Then Ivan pees on the hydrant and proceeds down the street until he reaches some point known only to him. Then we turn around and head back until we near our driveway when he again crosses the street and pulls me along. As before, he trots only to the third or fourth house and decides we must go back. Depending on how much precipitation we are receiving and how long I’m willing to go along, we can walk this same abbreviated route several times. I don’t know why this is the established rain route, and I do not pretend to understand what goes on in his fuzzy little head, but oh how intent he is, and how utterly irresistible in his mission.
Should the precipitation rate increase, Ivan calls it a day and does his best sled dog imitation, urging me to move already before he melts. Tropical Rainstorm Bill is currently visiting. Ivan is very dismayed by this constant rain. Umbrellas over his sweet head, his little water repellent coat, yummy treats, none of these help. I have to use a leash and treats to propel him into the back yard.
Today at noon he insisted we go for a walk. “You aren’t going to like this,” I warned as I wriggled him into his harness and coat. He stopped in the garage and looked out at the rain. He sighed. He walked closer to the garage door and looked at me. “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure why I was apologizing, but it seemed the thing to do. “Let’s go to the mailbox and if you still want to, we’ll go for a walk.” We dashed out to the mailbox and that was enough for Ivan. I grabbed the mail and we raced back inside. I alternated apologies for letting it rain and praise for his bravery as I hung up his coat and dried his feet. Then both Ivan and Dasa had to have treats to help him recover from his traumatic experience.