JOIN USSome lead. Some are to be led. As with human beings, it is true in respect of a dog and its master out on a morning walk, the animal on a leash.
Among the benefits one derives from an early-morning walk is the sight of men taking a canine companion principally for a stroll that would include for the quadruped an occasion for just sniffing around to sharpen its smelling skills besides select a suitable lamp post or a motor vehicle bumper for its morning relief. But the point to be observed in the procession of man and animal in a single file is who is leading who?
Take the case of the short man in Bermuda shorts and T-shirt bearing the legend — I lead. It is a misnomer since the animal he is taking for an outing, a ferocious-looking Alsatian, is always steps ahead authoritatively, its master hobbling behind, bending backwards like the Leaning Tower of Pisa to maintain balance. The dog does not believe in uniform acceleration and so, would trot, run or dash, forcibly tugging at the leash.
Needless to say, the master would have to constantly cajole or command to backtrack, especially if the animal at the business end of the leash would dash forward with a big woof just for the heck of it or after spotting a puny adversary or a lovely female of its species.
A diametrically opposite case is a tall plump gent in jogging tracks out with a fluffy milk-white Pomeranian that seems to have a daily body wash with a detergent, that laughs loudly at the dirtiest stains on a rumbustious boy’s dress. The leash that connects man and this animal is never taut but always relaxed and slack, the docile animal readily granting right of way with a polite ‘pahle aap’ to the lord and master. It would stop when he would stop and trot or run when he would trot or run.
The master need not command but the animal would replicate ungrudgingly the changes in movements in a servile follow-up, always ready to please. However, once, I saw the milk-white Pam jump up and yap in sharp censorious jerks. That was when the man paused near a cement bench in the park and lighted a moody cigarette. Perhaps the dog’s voice was a condemnation of His Master’s Vice.
There are, of course, men and women wedded to each other, and also to diabetes, out for their pre-dawn therapeutic constitutional. Some ladies who take the doctor’s words seriously walk briskly with a no-nonsense air, their noses turned up in the air, the disgruntled husbands regimentally bugled out from their cosy beds after a night out with the boys, trudging and suppressing invective intended towards womanhood in general.
But there are also the Sati Savitri types who walk demurely behind their husbands, a mini recap of the seven steps taken long back, leaving the movement pattern to the lord and master. Such ladies, sadly few in numbers nowadays, may decide, though arguably, it would be less of a bother to be led and not lead.