What Copper’s Slow Walks Taught Me About Hurry

My Walks with Copper

Instead of ending our walk around the 12-minute mark, we start hitting the 25-minute mark. Copper, one of my neighbor’s retrievers, likes to sniff a mailbox he has sniffed at all three last times we passed by it. He even lost his grip on the leash. While I’m doing nothing, Copper gets all the time he needs to lower himself and process the contents of the grass that I will never be able to understand…

At the beginning, I would save the nice tugs and call him cheerfully while using my most positive tones to speak to him. I thought a little encouragement from me would be enough to keep him focused on the walk, but he really could not care less. I quickly learned my tugs and calls were wasted effort, and that I shouldn’t bother my phone and should really just keep it in my pocket.

Unlike puppies, who need an endurance kind of patience because of their high energy and need to clean up accidents, older dogs need a much different kind of patience called presence.

Instead of treating Copper like he’s trying to get to the park to start pulling squirrels out of the trees like a nerd because he wants to smell every single thing like a total nerd, I had to switch my mindset to stop controlling his walk and simply enjoy it.

I always thought that I was the one doing Copper the favor. Taking him out, making him exercise, and keeping him active in his old age. But on a Tuesday morning last month, while Copper was sniffing the same tuft of grass for the third time, I realized he was doing something I had forgotten.

He was showing me how to do nothing.

The world around us is full of things to do, so why wouldn’t we do them? Why wouldn’t we listen to podcasts on 1.5x speed? Why wouldn’t we feel accomplished about multitasking? When a senior dog looks at you, he reminds you that none of that really matters. What matters is that we are here, and we are enjoying the sun together.

I’ve started noticing things on our slow walks that I missed for years. Between eight and eight thirty, the light on the Henderson’s brick wall looks different. Someone three streets over has a rosemary bush in their front yard. I’ve learned to look for the small brown bird that always perches on the same wire.

Cooper has taught me to relax and enjoy the things I’ve always overlooked.

I know that eventually these walks will come to an end. The morning walks will eventually be silent without sniffing and excitement. I push that thought to the back of my mind because I know the truth. It is the kind of truth all people know when the love something that won’t be around forever. Perhaps this is one of the things I’m learning from him as well. Knowing that something is more important, more valuable, or limited, it’s an opportunity to slow down and not rush through it.

So when Copper stops at the mailbox, or the fire hydrant, or a completely boring patch of sidewalk, I stop too. I relax my shoulders. I take a moment to watch the clouds. I stand with him in what ever moment he’s stopping for because it’s obviously important to him.

I have learned that patience is not about waiting. It’s about being ready to be present where you actually are.