My neighborhood is diverse in many ways — age, race, and religion — and these folks really seem to like dogs. I get a good glimpse of my neighbors mostly while they are walking their dogs up and down the hilly streets of our idyllic little community. It’s great people-watching.

There’s the very tall, willowy woman with the mutt. They walk briskly, and she reads while they patrol the block: she usually holds the newspaper, folded into neat, manageable rectangles.

Oh, and I can’t forget the cute guy with the two huskies. My brother-in-law has one husky, and based on that dog’s personality, I cannot even begin to imagine owning two. Beautiful dogs, but the most bizarrely egoistical animals I have ever encountered. Vain, attention-seeking, moody, petulant — gorgeous and high-maintenance. Like most of us, I guess, except in the form of a snow-loving dog.

I have also noticed the attorney across the street who walks a dachshund. Okay, I’m not exactly sure he’s an attorney. I think, a long time ago, I made an assumption on the occupation of the guy with the dachshund, and the fact that it just rolled off my fingertips onto the keyboard as “the attorney across the street” is a bit frightening.

Most recently, I have noticed the old man with the Yorkshire terrier. That little dog reminds me of the last dog we had as a family. I was in high school, and one rainy Saturday afternoon, my mother came home with a Yorkshire terrier puppy tucked into the pocket of her raincoat. We named her Phoebe, and she was with my parents until they moved to Las Vegas in February 1994. Phoebe lived with me from then until October 2000, and she was the best dog we have ever had. As a result, I have a very soft spot in my heart for Yorkies.

I first noticed this little old man and his Yorkie one day before Christmas. Walking slowly up the sidewalk, shuffling more than walking, the leash held gingerly between his fingers as if holding the leash too firmly would somehow hurt the puppy. He was looking down, and I could tell by the slack in the leash that the puppy was tiny and toddling along at its own little puppy pace. Sure enough, as I slowly drove past, I caught a glimpse of the sweetest little black and tan puppy sniffing along at the grass — a brand new Yorkie.

Again this morning, I saw this man and his dog — shuffling down the sidewalk, leash pinched gently between his fingers, watching that round, soft, little dark slipper of a dog meander along blithely, not a care in the world. Something about the pair is so endearing. The way he watches that puppy is so attentive and sweet. He looks at the dog as if having something to watch over, protect, and care about was long overdue.

This brings to mind thoughts about aging and the more difficult aspects of growing old. Losing those things we, young now, take for granted. Losing people we love. Losing the dreams to which we’ve held fast for years, as life twisted and turned, plotting its own course despite our best efforts and, often, hopes. Gaining wisdom and finding serenity even as we grow more disconnected from the hustle and bustle of the world around us. It begs the question: is it really “loss,” or is it more a letting go? Do we simply learn to let things fall away, opening our hands to allow them to slip through our fingers, freeing us from worry, from judgment, and from the dreams we didn’t attain?
Why do we not honor the passage of time, welcoming the grey hair and the lines life etches across our features? Why do we not sit at the knees of our grandparents, listening to them speak of the history through which they lived?

But, back to the little old man and his Yorkie. Maybe what makes them such a happy pair is that the dog doesn’t care about the old man’s brittle bones, or his failing hearing, or the line of prescription bottles standing at attention on the kitchen counter. Maybe the dog only cares that several times a day, regardless of the weather, the old man pulls on his coat and hat and reaches for the leash — that glorious sound that means once again, together, they will brave the elements and wander, slowly up and down the sidewalk, taking in all the sights and scents. Maybe that’s it. Maybe that dog is patient with him when others are not. Maybe the dog waits for him outside bathroom doors and when food dishes need to be filled and, most importantly, when people no longer make the time to wait for him. Maybe, it’s just as simple as the dog loves him and is something for him to love in return.