Tim Dowling: I went out to walk the dog and came home a hero
It is a bleak and featureless afternoon; the bottom of the year’s trough. I don’t want to do anything except look out the window and complain.
“Horrible,” I say.
“I was hoping,” my wife says, “that you might kindly do the afternoon dog walk.”
I’ve been married long enough to know that a certain graceful acquiescence is called for here.
“Oh my God, what?” I say.
“I did the morning,” she says, “And I’ve got work to catch up on.”
“I also have work,” I say. “I’m a businessman.”
“It would be a great help,” she says.
“Yeah, fine, whatever,” I say. The new dog bounds into the room, leaps on to the sofa and places both front paws on my chest.
“Not yet, though,” I say.
An hour later we set off into the gloom. The rain, for the moment, is holding off, but the grey light is fast leaching from the sky.
“Come on, let’s do this,” I say, tugging on my end of the lead as the dog laps at a puddle. I’ve had dogs long enough to know that a little patience is called for. But I’m not feeling it.
The park is nearly empty, which is how I like it. I make for an open stretch of squelchy grass and let the dog off the lead. It runs in large circles, nose to the ground. I stand still as the mud sucks at my boots, like the earth trying to pull me in.
After about 20 minutes, I have a strong urge to wrap things up.
“Let’s go,” I say to the dog, “it’s getting dark.”
By the time we reach the park gates the sky is pitch black. As we approach the level crossing the red lights begin to blink, the barriers come down and my heart sinks further still.
When we moved to a house near a level crossing I imagined adapting to the way it dictates the pace of life – learning to stand still, at home in the empty moment, until the train passes. But the rhythms of this particular crossing are perverse: the barriers can be down for three minutes, or seven, or, under certain circumstances, more than 10. Occasionally they stay down for half an hour. They were once down all day. It’s maddening.
This woman just went down, BAM! And nobody does anything – people were stepping over her. Then Dad’s suddenly there, rescuing her dog
Four minutes pass. A crowd gathers either side of the barriers; cars are backed up in both directions. The dog strains at the lead. A light rain begins to fall.
“Not long now,” I say. But the barriers stay put, and the crowd behind me grows.
Finally, the train comes in. A moment later, the barriers rise. The two crowds merge in the middle, trying to push past each other, with half a dozen prams jockeying for position. There are several dogs in the mix, so I hold my lead tight and short. Just to my right, a long line of cars bumps over the tracks, almost grazing me.
A woman coming towards me catches her foot in one of the channels where the rails run, and falls. She cries out as she hits the ground, and a couple of people step straight over her. Two men to my left part to walk round her.
The woman’s dog, a lurcher, is loose and weaving through the crowd, heading for the road. As it passes me I reach out, without thinking, and catch it by the collar.
“This way,” I say, pulling both dogs across the grain of pedestrian traffic. By the time I reach the woman she is back on her feet.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Are you OK?” I say.
A voice over my shoulder says, “Hey, Dad”. I look up to see the youngest one crossing the tracks in the other direction, earbuds in.
“Oh, hey,” I say. He nods, I nod, and we go our opposite ways.
I try to tell my wife this story when I get home, but she’s already in her coat, on her way out.
“I’m late,” she says. “Tell me later.”
But I don’t. In fact I have forgotten the whole episode by the time the youngest one comes over for lunch three days later and tells the story himself.
“This woman just went down, BAM!” he says. “And nobody does anything – people are, like, stepping over her.”
“Where was this?” my wife says.
“At the crossing,” he says. “And then, weirdly, Dad’s suddenly there, rescuing her dog.”
“Huh,” my wife says.
“I’m glad you saw that,” I say. “On a different day you might have easily witnessed an act of unspeakable cowardice.”
“I know,” he says.
“Or maybe just blinkered selfishness,” I say.
“He knows,” my wife says.
