What Dogs Know
Crunchy peanut butter biscuits do the trick
Milo and I roam the neighborhood. We know things. We know that the stone wall that fronts Goodwood is the right height for a graceful leap, a proud prance. We know that at noon St. David’s offers a lawnful of short people, some of whom like to practice petting. We know which shrub once sequestered an abandoned banana. We know the spigot outside Eddies and the bowl next to Johnny’s. We know the muddy joy of Stony Run and the shame of that sign: All Dogs Must Remain on Leash. We know our neighbors: Emmie and Nellie, Rocket, Drummer, Porter, Norty, Teddy, and Eli. It was during a tumultuous reunion with Eli, beside Petit Louis, that we learned how much we didn’t know.
Eli’s human clued us in. “Are you getting a snack?” she asked, trying to unknot the leashes. We gave her two blank stares. Obviously every walk should end with a scoop of kibble. But snack? On the street? She pointed at the firehouse, its enormous red doors folded back to reveal Engine 44, the one that dashes down Roland Avenue, howling. Each door was lined with windows; each window ledge was lined with Milk-Bones. I gasped. Milo dropped to a sit. He knows how to release a biscuit.
“If your dog ever runs away, this is where you’ll find him,” Eli’s human explained. “All the dogs know about the biscuits.”
In five years of leading walking tours of Baltimore’s Roland Park, Milo didn’t know about the biscuits. In 12 years of following first Theo, then Milo, I didn’t know about the biscuits. I chose a large one and dropped it into Milo’s jaws.
Now we know.
The scheme is delightful. Delicious, apparently. And discouraging. Hand to leash, nose to pavement, what other wonders have we missed?
