The Walks Are Shorter Now. But Somehow, the Time Tastes Sweeter.

Most mornings, Rigby, my dog, and I head out for our daily walk. Central New York weather (snow, rain, extreme heat, and cold) often dictates the timing and attire, but we still head out the door with purpose and regularity.

For more than ten years, that daily walk has been one of my simple pleasures.

I swear I can see Rigby smiling. I know that I am.

My mind clears as the steps increase and Rigby discovers a new smell or a squirrel like he hasn’t encountered either one a hundred times before. The park near our house on a long leash, or an empty camp road at the lake off-leash, Rigby enjoys both equally. About 2.5 miles, maybe an hour of exercise, but a lifetime of companionship.

But nothing lasts forever, right?

The walks are shorter now.

Congestive heart failure for Rigby. Not a question of if, just a matter of when.

Rigby seems oblivious to the diagnosis. The sights and smells are still calling, and our walk is still one of the highlights of his day. Mine too. Maybe the time and distance have shortened, but the feelings are deeper. Even sweeter, if an emotion can have a taste.

Life has a way of sneaking up on us and reminding us of what really matters.

Enjoyment, friendship, and companionship can easily fall into a routine. The daily walks may seem ordinary, but the wag of Rigby’s tail before we set out and the tug on the leash when he discovers a new spot carry extra weight now.

The walks haven’t really changed. Distance, yes. Time, yes. Meaning? Nope.

But my awareness of this time's scarcity has entered the conversation.

And in truth, as I walk a few paces behind Rigby, I realize that he isn’t the only one with an uncertain clock.

Mine has an expiration date too.

I just turned 66. My father passed at 86. So that means something like 20 years. At least that’s where my mind immediately goes. Then I start calculating the remaining numbers for the things that matter most to me. Time spent with my wife, family, and friends. Kind of like a NASA countdown, only not as exciting when the clock strikes zero.

For much of our lives, time is something we spend in pursuit of something else. The next promotion, accomplishment, financial milestone, house, trip, or whatever comes next.

Even retirement has its own scoreboard.

Have I accomplished enough? Am I productive enough? Am I making the most of retirement? How many trips can I take? How many places can I visit?

Rigby doesn’t have any of those questions.

At least I don’t think he spends much time pondering life’s biggest questions the way I tend to do as I follow his path each day. He just wants to walk with me. The smells in the grass and the air. A little sunshine and fresh air. And whatever’s around the next turn.

Among the many “lessons” Rigby has taught me is this simple one:

Rigby has never needed a scoreboard to know whether he was having a good day.

My dog, my ever-present companion, is the walking, four-legged embodiment of living in the moment.

I should qualify that last statement. A lot of the time, he is sleeping in the moment. But when I pull out my hiking shoes, he is definitely awake and living.

He doesn’t ask, “How much time do I have left?”

Time is a quiet companion, always there in the background. But for Rigby, it just doesn’t matter. The only question is, “What are we going to do today?”

And for him, that answer better include our walk.

I strive to be more like Rigby. To enjoy the moment. To lose the impulse to rush on to the next big thing or put the next achievement up on my scoreboard. Like my educational history, I’m not an A+ student. But I am making progress.

The sun has made a welcome appearance here today. My walk with Rigby is waiting.

It will be shorter.

But when he stops to sniff that same spot, yet again, I’ll hold off on tugging at the leash. I’ll let him take his time. And maybe I’ll take mine.

Because you never know if we will pass this way again.

If this reflection resonated with you, you might also enjoy my book, A New Game Without a Scoreboard, where I explore many of these same themes of identity, purpose, connection, and acceptance in retirement. Learn more about the book