andColorsOfSummer

Pickle and I went for a long walk yesterday. We took the footbridge across to the water. We turned right, beginning along our usual route towards the giant ship that docks near the salmon daycare net. Clearly, I know what I am talking about. This is why I could never be a journalist. (At least I did use the word “thingy” or “do-hicky”)

We were almost to Pickle’s favorite beach (the one she’s not actually allowed to tromp), when I decided we should walk the other way—towards downtown. We usually don’t go that way because once we get to the end of Olympic Sculpture Park, the green disappears, the pier extends with buildings, and the city grows up around us, like entering the tall weeds at the entrance of a forest. On past walks, Pickle would start to get jittery there, surrounded by more people and busy streets.

Today, we played a little mind game though. We walked up through Olympic Sculpture Park instead of following the boardwalk below it. This let us out at Elliot Ave so that we could get our start deeper into the city, even if only by a block or two.

The buildings’ shade let the breeze cool us from the abnormally warm sun. The 70 degree temperature felt much hotter—in direct sun, my skin began to bead sweat as my skin soaked it all in. I have to admit, I have not been this pale or this evenly toned quite possibly since birth. I need more sun.

Given the beautiful day (and the Friday before yet another Sunday drinking holiday), the bars and cafes overflowed to the patios, reaching across sidewalks and leaving a happy hum in the air. People pointed and smiled at Pickle as we walked by, some reaching their hands down through the restaurant fences to try to touch her as she sniffed around.

We waited at crosswalks and walked in small sprints until we finally made it to Belltown. They have a great off-leash park that I’ve eyed up from the bus route since I moved to Seattle. Now that I have Pickle live nearby, it seemed like a perfect reason to go.

There were more dogs there than there usually are at Kinnear. Also, instead of mulch, the ground was gravel and cement. Funny the difference between a downtown park and an uptown park. Pickle fixated on the gravel, sniffing around and trying to chew up any crumbs she could get. I was afraid she was eating more stones that anything. Still, she made some puppy friends, including a little brown hairless dog with a bulldog sort of underbite (except he didn’t have all the extra lip skin to cover any of his teeth). Pickle raced the other dogs and got in some good jumping and playing. The park had cement fixtures and ramps for the dogs to play on, but none of them seemed too interested. The people all sat on a cement wall, smoking cigarettes and talking more than watching the dogs.

One lady was oddly captivated by Pickle. “She’s such a funny looking dog!” she repeated. She showed me how her dog also has a funny spot on his bum and gave Pickle a treat.

We didn’t stay long. Sometimes, Pickle wears herself out too much at the park and doesn’t want to walk home. She may be small, but she is thick, and twenty pounds seems to feel heavier the farther you walk.

I motivated her to keep going with thoughts of dinner at home and by running. She loves to run. The other day, we went out for a real run—going out with that intention anyways. We sprint a ways, then we walk. Sprint. Walk. It’s a great system. I took her along the water pathway where I usually jog my 5ks when I’m up for it. We didn’t go the whole way. In total, we maybe covered a mile and a half, there and back. I was proud of her for doing so well on her first run, but when we made it to the ramp, she gave up. She sat down and wouldn’t budge another inch, so I carried her back to the apartment.

So we ran towards home. We ran down the exit (or entrance, depending from where you are coming). “Cute baby,” the security woman said in passing. I huffed out a thanks as I focused on not slipping on the small stones. We walked through a different beachy glen where kids were balancing on the driftwoods and couples were watching the sun on the water. On the other side of the beach, the grassy park begins.

Between two trees, a young couple had a slackline taut to walk across. Pickle and I stood and watched for a moment before walking up and saying hello. I sat down in the grass next to the young man, Brent, and we made introductions while Holly balanced on the line. They were from New York, so we had the usual East-coast opinions of Seattle, like how great winter was with no snow.

They asked if I wanted to try the slackline. I looked at it and imagined myself just trying—I knew it would be harder than these practiced folk made it look. I watched them a while longer.

“Your turn,” they finally said, both looking at me. “I’ll hold the puppy,” Holly reach out for the leash. I took off my shoes and socks, walked over to the line, and sat one foot on without weight. The line was thick and cold, and the grass stuck to my sweaty feet.

They instructed me on how to begin, putting all weight slowly onto the one foot on the line. “Keep your heel straight down in line with your ass,” Holly said, pointing from her toe, in a line up to the small of her back—an ineffective visual given she was sitting on the ground with her legs bent, but I understood. The more weight I put on my leg, the more it began to shake. The line vibrated back and forth like a sound wave, and I could feel my body jiggling. I tried not to think about it, even though I was with two fit people who had nothing to jiggle when they shook.

So it went—I would balance for a while and fall off. They said learning to balance just standing is the most important first part before you can begin walking. Sometimes though, my instinct was to step forward as I was starting to fall, resulting in a few quick steps across the line.

We took turns. Brent simply walked back and forth across the line and started to try tricks. Holly took small steps, and when she fell, she cussed “Shit” or “Damn” in her high, sweet voice. We talked about the adventures Seattle offers. They said they’re doing the naked bike race in June. “It’s great that people can be so open and expressive. People should not be ashamed of their bodies.” We all laughed about the bike event, and I felt much better about my jiggly thighs on the line.

Others stopped to watch us or walked up and talked about the line. A couple from my church walked by, and I waved them over to say hello. Later, an older man—he said he was 61—came over and actually tried it! Except he didn’t just try it. He did really well. He balanced quite quickly and was very sure of his posture. We were all really impressed!

The sun kept ticking lower and beating darker orange. Pickle rummaged through Brent’s jacket and found an apple core, which she quickly consumed. Thank goodness they were so accepting of her and didn’t mind her habits of not listening or nebbing through people’s stuff. (I try to be a good owner, I swear. I don’t usually let her take other people’s things!)

Eventually, I got really good at balancing. I could stand on the line and nearly grasp a tree pose, arms overhead, one leg balanced on the other.  I decided then that it was time to call it a night. Pickle was clearly hungry, and I wondered if Laura wondered where we were. It seemed we had been gone a long time, but it’s hard to tell because the sun sets so late already in the season.

Almost to the ramp, a small group of people sat on a bench, all turned and staring toward us. I turned around, but there was no one else there. I thought they were looking at Pickle, but I thought I was just being arrogant about my adorable puppy. I decided they actually were looking at her and said, “Would you like to say hi?” They each exclaimed some version of YES, and we made our way to the bench. The small talk was a nice close to our walk. They admired Pickle’s green eyes and friendly demeanor.

Finally almost home, we ran across the bridge. Walking along the sidewalk, I tried to catch my breath. As we turned the bend towards the side door, I focused my eyes to see Laura also walking towards the door but coming from the opposite direction. She was still in her work clothes. We had ridden the bus downtown together after an early day out at work. She was going shopping, and I was going home to Pickle. I hadn’t taken my phone with us, so we hadn’t been in contact. I laughed at our chance meeting and told her about our adventures as we went up to the room together.

As I put my pajamas on, my bottoms of my feet looked dull and dark as I lifted them. I looked—the first green feet of summer. Grass-stained heels, even in the city, was both an encouragement and proof that you can’t take the country out of the girl.

Satisfied with my dirty feet, I didn’t wear shoes when I took Pickle out for her last evening pee before bed.

This morning, I took my Morning Thunder tea on our early break outside and let quiet of early day seep into me with the breeze as I sipped and smelled earth. My feet were still green, and even Pickle’s nails were coated in yesterday’s dirt. She looked at me and tilted her head such that one of her ears stuck straight while the other flopped over. The air was already warm, the sky nothing but blue.



"And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer." -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby