The Elephant Walk

Three is not just one more than two. And four is definitely not just one more than three.

I know, I know, but hear me out. When we’re talking about bringing dogs into the family, it’s not an additive function — it’s multiplication. Every personality, every body, every set of wants and worries stacks onto the others. The picture becomes more complicated, but also somehow warmer. Life gets fuller, a little messier, and a lot more alive.

I notice this most clearly on a walk. For many people, a walk is simple: clip a leash to a collar and head out the door. Maybe open the car door or step onto the trail. I used to have walks like that once upon a time. Now, leaving the house requires preparation, planning, and a small amount of choreography. True love requires work. I’m genuinely okay with that.

Before we even start, I put on a waist pack with a carabiner attached. Two leashes are clipped together with another carabiner, and then those connect to me. I’ve learned I need my hands free. There are wheels involved. Different speeds. Different priorities. One dog is committed to smelling the base of every tree as if it contains breaking news. Another is simply here for forward motion. One trails behind, scanning the ground for a snack that may or may not exist. And one isn’t entirely sure what the plan is, but is absolutely certain he should smell whatever anyone else smells.

Sometimes I feel like a kindergarten teacher leading children out to recess, everyone technically attached to the same rope but leaning as far as physics allows toward something fascinating just out of reach. As long as everyone keeps moving in roughly the same direction, we’re fine. When they don’t, our calm Elephant Walk turns into chaos. Too many opinions and not enough agreement, and suddenly we aren’t going anywhere at all.

Helen moves at her own pace — slow, and occasionally steady. Over the past two years, her world has gotten quieter and dimmer, her hearing and vision fading enough that I spend a surprising amount of time gently steering the boys’ carts away from her legs so she doesn’t get startled or trip. She doesn’t rush, and she doesn’t wander far; her leash rides gently in my hand. The walks matter to her in a way you can feel. They keep her body working and her spirit engaged. Every walk we get together with Helen feels like a small gift I’m allowed to hold onto a little longer.

Half Moon is my steady one. He walks beside me as if he understands the assignment, calm and reliable, rarely needing the main line. Unless we pass a ramada. Then he peels away with confidence to investigate whether a weekend birthday party has left behind even a crumb of opportunity.

Joey walks on a short retractable leash. I know, there are strong opinions about retractable leashes, and I understand why, even agree their are the Devil’s Leash. But real life with mobility dogs doesn’t always fit inside perfect rules. Sometimes management matters more than theory, and for Joey, it gives just enough space without losing safety.

Andy, sweet soft-eyed Andy, becomes a completely different creature outside the house. At home, he melts into you, but on a walk, he appoints himself head of security. He watches everything. Every sound matters. Every movement is evaluated. I adore him, but his chocolate brown eyes hide a very serious belief that he is responsible for my safety.

The hardest part of the walk is not starting. It’s stopping.

A signpost, a bench, a trash can become steering challenges. Every leash chooses a different side. Lines cross. Wheels rotate. Dogs pivot. Within seconds, I am standing in a knot so complex it feels intentional, as if they’re quietly testing my patience and my ability to untangle a living string. The moment we pause, everyone suddenly develops a new and urgent agenda. Sometimes I picture myself as a cowboy trying to guide animals back into a barn before a storm. Only the animals have wheels, opinions, and noses that must investigate everything.

But eventually the knots come free. We move again. The rhythm returns.

By the end of the walk, everyone settles. Water. Car. Backseat naps. Often, we head straight to work, where they sleep peacefully in my office while I help other mobility-challenged dogs learn how to move, stand, and trust their bodies again.

I love these walks.

They are not efficient. They are not graceful. They are certainly not the peaceful, uninterrupted stroll people imagine when they picture walking their dogs. My mind wanders while my eyes stay alert, scanning ahead and behind. Passing another dog takes planning. I watch leash placement so wheels don’t tangle. I watch body language so nobody feels overwhelmed.

But underneath all of that management, something quieter happens. I’m just with them.
Not evaluating movement. Not teaching exercises. Not fixing anything. Just sharing time and direction and air and sunlight. The leashes that complicate everything also connect us. Being physically tethered to them grounds me in a way I didn’t expect when this life began.

They need the movement, the smells, the routine, and the shared purpose of going somewhere together. And truthfully, so do I.

I love our Elephant Walks.