I always refer to Leyja as “my dog,” but she really belongs to my Father. She’s a brindle bull terrier with extremely short upper arms, so when she lies on her side her paws jut out in two straight lines as if they were bound in plaster. Her legs taper down into tiny paws so dainty that when she kicks me in the night I feel like I’m being prodded by the blunt end of a pool cue.
Leyja is addicted to routine. Every day at precisely half past three in the afternoon she will sit up on my bed where she has been keeping me company, her crumpled ears will perk up, and she will stare at me intently.
“Hoo,” she says.
I’ve been around Leyja long enough to know that what she is saying is, Michael, I think we had better go out for a walk now, don’t you think?
Usually at three thirty in the afternoon I am busy with other things, and in no mood to step out into the sun. So I’ll look right back at Leyja and say, “Sweetheart, can we please wait a bit? It’s just so hot outside right now.”
She will then use her dainty paws to drag herself closer to me. “Uff!” Michael, this can’t wait. I’m terribly busy and this is my only window in which to do this.
“My darling,” I will say, “can I just finish writing this blog, please?”
Now she will pull herself fully across my lap so that I have to put my laptop aside. “Hoof!”
I know that Leyja is on the verge of losing her cool entirely, so I have two choices: Give in or hide. Usually, when the weather is too hot, or my legs are sore from running, I’ll try to buy myself some more time. I’ll burrow under my pillows and pretend that I’m not actually here. If Leyja can’t see me, I reason, then she won’t be able to find me. What usually happens next is that I’ll feel the weight of a medium-sized bull terrier land squarely on my face, which is only moderately shielded by a light pillow.
“Oof!” Says I.
“HOOF!” Says she.
“I’m not here!” I squeak.
“HOOF!” She explains. “HOOF! HOOF!”
“Okay, okay!” I concede. “I’m here.”
It’s always futile to fight Leyja, and inevitably I’ll pull myself up and begin putting on my walking shoes. By now Leyja will be in a frenzy, relentlessly shouting directly into my face as I stoop to tie my shoelaces. She shouts at me as we walk down the passageway, and she’ll continue shouting as I reach for her collar. By now she’s jumping, her dainty back legs launching her towards the hook that holds her lead. She has enough self-control to sit when I tell her to sit, but as soon as I slip the chain over her head, she shoots out the door, pulling me with her.
Any time someone on the street cares to opine on the spectacle that Leyja and I are making of ourselves, they will always say the same thing: “It looks like she’s taking you for a walk!” It’s not that great a joke, but it’s an apt description. Leyja will always bite onto the lead and run in front of me, pulling me along. All I can do is run along behind her and keep her on a safe path, all the while reminding her that she doesn’t have to run everywhere, and that she should try walking and sniffing around sometime.
But Leyja is very busy and important. She doesn’t have time to waste. As much as she is particular about her time, so too is she very specific on her walks. She will race up the road and around the corner until her first burst of energy is expended. Then she will pee, and begin racing again until halfway up the road. After that she will pull me across the street, which is always stressful because I have to win this game of tug of war until the road is safe to cross, and only then can I give her the victory so that she can pull me to the other side.
During every walk, Leyja will run in the same areas, pee in the same spots, and bark at the same dogs. And at the same place during every walk, Leyja will come to a halt, and that will be my cue to pick her up for a little bit. Over the past few months my upper body strength has noticeably increased because of how much time I spend carrying Leyja during our walks. She has come to expect it, and I have learned when she needs to be put down so that she can run along certain stretches of grass or bark at certain dogs. But every day our walks end with me carrying her home, softly placing her down in front of our gate, and then letting her walk into the yard under her own steam, returning home in triumph once again.
But the walk is only the beginning of our ritual. Being a creature of habit, Leyja will step into the kitchen, lap up a few mouthfuls of water from her water bowl, and then lead me back up the passageway towards the bathroom. My job now is to run some cold water into the bath tub and then hoist Leyja into it so that she can collapse onto her tummy and begin cooling down her hot, puffing body. I, too, am sweating and tired, but that’s not really important. What’s important is that I sit with Leyja, and watch her as she alternatively pants and nuzzles her little snout under the water. Leyja, like most dogs, I think, doesn’t like being alone. So I’ll sit with her and just watch her be in her own thoughts. Sometimes she will stare into a white corner of the bathtub, and then suddenly crane her neck back to see that I’m still with her.
“I’m here! I’m here!” I’ll say. I say that a lot, actually. Sometimes when she’s on the other side of the house, Leyja will bark once, and I will go find her and say, “I’m here!”
After Leyja has been in the bath for about twenty minutes, she’ll start to get antsy. She can’t rest her head on her paws or lie on her side because then she’ll have to submerge her face underwater, which she doesn’t like. So she’ll stand up, and I’ll lift her out and dry her off with the towel that we keep next to the bath just for her. After that, we have to go to the kitchen, where she will be given a single dog treat as reward for her efforts in running around outside, and putting the neighbourhood dogs in their place, and for being carried and bathed with such bravery.
This is our daily ritual, and Leyja loves it. I also like to think that she loves me because of it. In the time that I’ve been home, I’ve become an integral part of Leyja’s life, and she has come to mean more to me than I could have imagined. She trusts me wholly. I can touch her while she’s sleeping and she will not awaken in alarm. She never flinches if I raise my hand or make any sudden movements. Often in the night I will reach out and squeeze one of her paws so that she knows I’m there. She’s sleeping next to me as I write this.
It pains me, then, that I have to leave her. The worst of it is that I cannot explain to her why I am going. I’ve been trying to prepare her for my departure so that it won’t come as such a shock. Last week I retrieved my big red suitcase from the back of my closest and showed it to her. Leyja knows that the big red suitcase usually means I’m going away somewhere, and when she saw it she left the room and didn’t talk to me for hours. I knew that it had upset her. My heart was in my stomach when she eventually came stalking back into my room. She didn’t seem too happy, but it was three thirty, and time for her walk.
“Sweetheart,” I said, putting my arms around her. “I’m here, my love! I’m here!” I meant it when I said it, then, because I knew that soon it wouldn’t be true.
I think about the dreams that Leyja has after her walks. Like most dogs, she grizzles in her sleep and jerks her dainty paws and straight legs as she runs down dream roads and chastises dream dogs. Her walk is the only time of day when she gets to leave the house, and I like to think that each walk is a precious thing for her. A moment that she holds in her mind; a memory that she replays over and over again, trying to squeeze out every drop of excitement. I’m glad that I could give that to her. I know that after I leave she won’t get out as much. My Father doesn’t have the energy required to walk Leyja. All I can do is hope that she remembers me, and holds onto the memories of her walks, until the day that I can once more say “I’m here!”
The Hangul Games 