We are walking in the woods. She is wearing her collar. No leash. Not today. It’s broad daylight and this is a popular trail. But I tell her to heel, and she does – pacing beside me, never more than half a step ahead, never more than half a step behind. I can feel her eyes on me constantly, gauging my pace.
I could take her hand, I suppose. I do sometimes, when we’re moving through crowds, when we’re both drunk, when it feels right for us to be linked like that, hand in hand.
But today she’s a dog. Quietly playful. Eager to please. Adoring. Happy. And today she heels instead. When I slow down, she does too. Looks to me and waits to see what will happen next. When I quicken my pace she does too, trotting alongside compliantly.
And when I stop unexpectedly and she, carried by the momentum of a step already begun, strays further than a halfstep in front of me, we both feel the tension on the leash that I’m not holding. She catches herself, wobbles, snaps back to my side as quickly and sharply as if she was tethered there.
No leash. Not today. Today she doesn’t need one.
