On Donkeys and Dogs

One of the things I've been doing in preparation for my Camino is reading a lot of books.  I find the ones detailing the author's personal journey far more compelling and entertaining than the ones that focus on history and architecture....zzzzz...  So I was really looking forward to Tim Moore's account in Travels With My Donkey: One Man and His Ass on a Pilgrimage to Santiago.  There were some really humourous bits in his telling including the best version of the chicken story I've read so far.  (But if I have to read the chicken story in one more book, I'll likely pitch it across the room and no, I'm not going to tell you the chicken story -- you'll find it ad nauseam in any historical account of the Way if you care to look it up.)

But I gotta tell ya, not too far into the book I'd had enough of the donkey Moore had chosen to take on his pilgrimage, not out of a sense of authenticity, but to carry his stuff.  That pissed me off to start with.  You want to go an a pilgrimage, carry your own damn stuff.  (It's akin to the poor beasts that lug cruise ship passengers up the side of Santorini but don't get me started on that.)  Moore's account ended up being an endless tale of the stubbornness of the donkey, where to leave the donkey at night, what to feed the donkey...  Moral of the story -- don't take a donkey on an 800 km walk.

So what does this have to do with dogs? Well, after my 1.5 hour walk with my dog today I got to thinking how nice it's going to be going for a long walk without her. Don't get me wrong -- I love my dog. LOVE, LOVE, LOVE.  But my idea of a walk is forward motion.  Her idea?  Walk, sniff, squat, sniff, sniff, sniff -- tug -- walk, sniff, sniff, squat, sniff, squat, sniff -- tug...tugtugtugtug -- walk, sniff, squat, sniff...  You know where I'm going with this.  I know for a fact that after an hour and a half she ain't producing squat when she, well, squats.

And it will be nice to walk without carrying a bag of, well, you know.


Book Review:  Have you ever read a book and as you're reading you can't decide if you like it or not?  And then you get to the end and realize you loved it?  Neil Gaiman's The Ocean at the End of the Lane was like that for me. And I can't for the life of me tell you why.  If you pick it up and aren't enthralled, it's short -- get to the end before passing final judgement.  I think you'll be pleasantly surprised how it works its way into your mind and your heart, like something smoky and intangible.