Walking the Dog
Every morning, my adorable dog Cassidy and I go for a walk. (Before I go any further, I'll admit that if I had a fenced-in yard, these morning walks would never happen. As anyone who has every worked with or lived with me can attest, I am not a morning person. At my last job, I tried to implement the rule that if you hadn't seen me get up for a coffee refill yet, you probably shouldn't speak to me. I'm not fully human before about 9:30 a.m. — as evidenced by my tendency to growl and grunt as communication before then.)
Being that mornings are not my peak time, these walks tend to vary greatly in duration and rigor. Sometimes we make it a couple of blocks. Other days, Cassidy is lucky if we get to the end of the neighbor's driveway.
I'm also not the most coordinated person (please see bio under "about" for further details), and the more tired I am, the more likely I am to hurt myself. I've come back from many a morning walk with a bruise from tripping over the curb or scratches from sideswiping a holly bush. I once even broke my toe walking smack dab into one of those metal stakes used to anchor trees. (Yes, I am a danger to myself, but rarely others.)
Cassidy puts up with a lot, and I do my best to reward her with peanut butter treats because of it.
So, the other morning, I'm stumbling down the sidewalk in my velour sweat suit, eyes half open, plastic bag in hand when I hear shouting behind me.
"Eva Diane! Eva Diane!!"
Now, I'm expecting to turn around a see a small child darting into the street based on the use of the first and middle names as well as the level of panic in the voice.
Imagine my surprise when I look back and see a Jack Russell Terrier instead.
In the middle of the walk, there's one of my neighbors frantically screaming at Eva Diane, the Jack Russell, to get back inside the house. And, while at first, I thought this was a completely absurd name for a dog — I feel like "Eva Diane" is an aging socialite and not a terrier — I also quickly realized that I wasn't one to judge. After all, Cassidy also has a middle name.
Please keep in mind that I never intended to give my dog a middle name. I never even intended to give her a three syllable first name. As a rescue dog, she came to live with me already bearing the name Cassidy. And, in addition to being more than rough-around-the-edges in the morning and clumsy, I can also be somewhat indecisive. I spent weeks trying to come up with another name for my new dog. (Since she's a redhead, I thought about Ginger because of the character from Gilligan's Island, but that seemed too girly. Gigi was also a contender, but seemed more suited to a Pomeranian than a mutt, and by the time I had considered all of the options, it had been a month and it seemed unreasonable to change the name then.)
Then, one day when I got mad at Cassidy for chasing after a cat, I found myself yelling "Cassidy Belle Mills get back here this instant."
I was as surprised to hear "Cassidy Belle" come out of my mouth as anyone, but it stuck. I guess I don't really don't have anything on old Eva Diane.