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This week has been all about the Conditioning Hiking Series including a CHS-1 lead Tuesday to Saint Edward State Park and a CHS-2 co-lead today to Wallace Falls. With two talks next week, I planned April carefully: shorter hikes this week, followed by a longer celebratory one to Pratt Lake next Friday after everything is done.

Intentions

The Saint Edward State Park trip was originally a “sniffer paced” trip I’d planned on taking Ajax to do with me. When he was unable to walk without limping the Thursday before, I let my hikers know he probably wouldn’t be able to join and took him to the vet.

I never planned on having an injured dog just as my hiking and backpacking season start to push into high gear.

My Little Man, Ajax

18 months ago, we were told Ajax had “normal wear and tear” for his age. His unexpected abdominal surgery in December included unpleasant complications. He had just started to look like himself again when the pain returned—different this time. His whimpering and limping are a clear sign something worse is going on. As I type this, I’m waiting for a callback from the vet. Helpless does not begin to describe what I’m feeling.

Suddenly I’ve shifted from a capable, in-high-demand hike leader who leads trips without fail every Tuesday, to a helpless and worried animal-parent, sitting by the phone hoping to have answers before the vet office closes at 6. Waiting is excruciating for someone bent on acting. Feeling powerless or victimized is the worst possible feeling for me.

Wallace Falls and Small Falls

This morning’s trip to Wallace Falls was a wonderful reprieve. A Rufous hummingbird and four deer greeted me before the trip even got started. 8 of us got pelted by melting snow-bombs from a recent storm, making the trail treacherous and causing us all to laugh in delight, even as we carefully made our way down the steep trail from Upper Falls.

After the rest of the hikers departed, I returned partway down the trail to visit a new-to-me interpretive loop, Small Falls. I’ve been meaning to check it out, but haven’t given myself permission to linger. Until today. I figured I could grab an extra 30 minutes of “me-time” before resuming pet care.

Outside Visit

As soon as I got home, Ajax awkwardly made his way to his feet; he’d been vigilantly waiting in the hallway for me, and as he took a few wincing, aching steps, he looked almost drunk. Now it looked like he had a problem with his left back paw as well as his front right paw. I almost burst into tears but waited until I could get him alone in the yard.

Knowing he hadn’t been out in 7 hours, I hoped he’d do his business and be ready to return to the house, but after 20 achingly slow steps, his right leg buckled and he yelped as loudly as I’ve ever heard him, landing upside down, belly bared in submission and tail … wagging? Was that pain? Joy? A plea for help? Even my husband rushed outside – he must have heard it or seen us out the window.

Basking in the Sun

Still in my hiking clothes from my morning trip, I knelt down in the wet grass beside him, and for the next 45 minutes, I simply whispered to him that I was there.

“Let me know when the pain gets to be too much. I’m here. You’re such a good boy.”

As the hour unfolded, we slowed to the rhythm of the neighborhood. A couple we know walked their dog Delilah half a block away. The neighbors across the street started their spring garden. A Chewy.com package arrived with what I hoped was his new prescription… only to find sunflower seeds for the backyard birds. A Cooper’s hawk cried to his mate in a nearby Douglas fir.

The glorious sun made me dive deeper into my sun hoody, while Ajax remained perfectly still on his back except for his right rear leg trembling every so often. He seemed comfortable and content in the wet grass and April afternoon sun. How could I possibly take that pleasure away from him?

Ego’s Demands

That annoying little voice in my head told me to make better use of the time — get my journal, grab my phone, do something — but I ignored it. I stayed right there with him, watching him breathe, caressing his uninjured paws, and willing him to feel better.

When he finally was willing to stand back up and do his business, he alerted to a coyote strolling by – a sign? Of what? — and my heart leapt to my throat, concerned he’d lunge and blow out his knee.

The Realization

I spend a lot of my time helping people do more—move better, go farther, get stronger, feel less pain. But today wasn’t about doing more.

It asked me to stop.

And when do I ever do that? Almost never. Maybe that’s why it took something this big to make me do it. Not a schedule. Not a plan. But a moment I couldn’t fix. Couldn’t change. To “be a wood duck and go with the flow.” So, I ignored that ego voice and listened to Ajax asking me to just be there with him. So innocent, so sweet, not needing anything except my presence. I couldn’t move. I didn’t WANT to move.

And Now…

I wait. The talks are still there. The plans. The hikes. But everything feels different with this uncertainty growing larger by the hour. Because if this means retiring the best hiking partner I could ever ask for… no amount of planning will ever prepare me for that. And how will I write a blog about adventures with my dog… if I can no longer adventure with my dog? Or will the adventures look more like today, lounging on the front lawn?