SAMBUCA OF THE SOFA

July 2002. For the past few days, I have been pet sitting with a large Labrador retriever named Sambuca; dry-weight, 90 pounds. Sambuca is the original couch potato, the cold hard floor being too severe for his tush. I nicknamed him Sambuca of the Sofa.

Sambuca and I take long walks, careful to stay away from the midday sun and the extreme humidity of sub-tropical Philadelphia. Sambuca of the Sofa likes to take breaks. One day, after we had walked about 3 miles, he began lagging farther and farther behind and before I knew it, I had 90 lbs of dead weight on the end of the leash. After a few minutes of fruitless urging, I stopped and poured water into his portable water bowl, and he predictably went into his normal routine (something I learned after many occurrences).

First, he stuck his nose underwater and held it there for a minute, not drinking, just hanging out underwater, and then he turned the bowl over with his paw; no water went down his throat...that, from an overheated couch potato.

I thought about the return trip—at his pace, we were about an hour from the sofa—and my options seemed slim. I could call a cab, but surely, the taxi would not carry a 90-pound dog. I could not carry a 90-pound dog. The 90-pound dog could not carry himself. What to do?

We camped under a tree and after awhile the shade cooled him off. When we started back; I slowed my pace and after many rest stops and "turn the bowl over" water breaks, we made it home.

What does this have to do with the Appalachian Trail? I don't know. “Hike at my own pace,” maybe?