Walking in the early morning hours is an activity I treasure. Before the town is fully awake, when it’s just me and Ivy, the newspaper delivery person zipping along in her white sedan, and the bus driver making near-impossible turns, I own this day. Along with them, I feel like one of the privileged few.
On especially chilly mornings, I layer in leggings and jeans; vest and coat; scarf, gloves, and head band. Ivy and I leave the warmth of the house for the welcoming air of the streets. With Ivy on my left, we start up the long steady rise to the knap that meets the boulevard. We stop in order for her to sniff, and for whatever naturally follows.
In my right coat pocket is a tissue and a green eco-friendly doggy bag; the left pocket is for treats, which come in handy when I need her to look at me instead of at the squirrels chasing each other up the telephone pole or at the barking dog behind the fence across the street.
We continue past old stone houses, and smaller bungalows. Two enormous sycamore trees grace the property of a home in mild disrepair. Though it is February, some homes still have their holiday lights on. I enjoy the calm that it brings.
At openings between the houses or at one of the five intersections we cross, we can see the river and the sun that is beginning to color the sky. Sometimes Ivy will stop right there and wait—cars be damned. This past week, the full moon still shone to the west while the sun in its rising attempted to blot it from the sky.
I remind Ivy not to cross in front of my feet to lunge at a fallen stick; there are plenty on her own side. She chooses the largest of the options, often whacking me across the shins with it as we go. She bites it hard, which causes it to break and fall to the ground. Sometimes she’ll pick up the discarded piece on the way back.
Aside from the occasional walker, the sidewalks are generally free of people. Sometimes we see another dog with her person. Other times we pass a solitary man who walks purposefully with head down and no words to share. We observe newspapers thrown short of front porches. I read the headlines as I step around one: President Biden received his COVID vaccination.
When we reach the house with the thick, expansive lawn, I remember to look up. It is from here that the bridge connecting Delaware to New Jersey can be seen. I am seldom unimpressed with its grandeur. The boulevard continues a downward trek to a road with fast-moving vehicles headed to the interstate. It is at that intersection that we turn around to return home, but not before Ivy stops, taking in the change of direction. I move my hand in a gesture of invitation. She considers and eventually follows along.
This walk is our dance. When in sync, our steps form a rhythm. If one of us forgets about the other, it’s like hitting a bad note. Most times it’s Ivy whose mind wanders and I become just something she drags around at the end of her leash. At other times it’s me who falls into a “where’s-the-fire” pace, long legs marching forward forgetting the dog who needs to sniff and sniff some more. We remind each other to pause and look at the mockingbird high in a tree, cawing like a blue jay. We slow as we hear the 4 bus approaching. I stop and wave.
We continue on, uphill this time, past the house with the big lawn, past the same newspaper, past the magnificent sycamores. Ivy finds the earlier-discarded stick. I loosen my scarf and unzip my jacket a bit. We make it back to our street, turn right and head downhill toward home.