Starting out on a walk with Toby in the still of the early morning, I wondered, as I always do, if we would make it past the apartment buildings and the corner playground, through the industrial backstreets, and onto the maze of paths and access roads in the wooded area. By make it, I mean make it in time—before Toby’s bodily needs asserted themselves. Toby was in no hurry to get anywhere in particular, almost as if he had no idea of having these needs. I decided to trust him rather than hurry him. Besides, there was no other option—he didn’t foresee his need and communicate it, but answered it, practically mid-step.
We got into the grass behind the apartment buildings, walked the overgrown fence line, cut across an empty lot, took the shortcuts through the industrial area with its jumbo warehouses, and rounded the last corner onto the gravel road. A couple of hundred meters ahead, it turned into a trail through the woods. It was a nice morning. Not hot, not damp.
Then Toby squatted. I thought, “Really? Here?” We were so close. “Can’t you hold it?”
He could not, though in a scant six minutes, we’d have been on the dirt trail. Rather than making a mess to clean up, requiring yet another plastic bag destined for the landfill, Toby would have been squatting in the overgrowth, contributing to the natural cycle of composting, like the horses and cows we passed in their fields, the hedgehogs under bushes, the birds on their branches. My father used to tell a story about a woman in his hometown when he was a boy who would gather and lift her skirts and squat in the street to urinate. “Dogs do it, why can’t I?” For Toby, communicating with his mournful, questioning look, it would be, “Javali and birds do it here, so can I, too?” Can—not only about ability but also about permission.
But there’s more to can. George Mallory said he wanted to climb Everest because it was there, which seems to me like because I can, only more elegant. Some beings are like that; for them, possibility is itself a reason to act, not just a condition for action. Think of children. They stack blocks, jump off things, throw a spoon onto the floor over and over, press buttons, and ask endless questions not because they need to or have to, but because they can.
Toby isn’t a creature to stake out territory or expand horizons. He would always rather please than defy, rather follow in safety than lead fearlessly. I looked around. Not yet eight o’clock. Not many people out. I tore a baggie from the dispenser in preparation for clean up. Because I have to. And because Toby can’t. And I can. I still can. Yes, even stronger than being able to is knowing that one day I won’t be able to. Neither of us will welcome that day. Finally, I still clean up after Toby because he’s still here.
Toby was gazing at me with his sad dark eyes. “Ready?” I asked. Toby took up his place at my heels.
