Which is how I’ve ended up here, on my way to the wilds of Hampstead Heath.
Picking up the three dogs and the short walk to Hampstead Heath go surprisingly well. None of the dogs bolt, bite, or defecate on my shoes on the way to the park, which I take as a win.
I know better than to be lulled into a false sense of security though. I’ve dealt with enough hostile takeovers to recognize the calm before the storm.
I’d never spent much time around dogs.
I wonder if they can sense fear.
Once we pass through the entrance to Hampstead Heath, I take stock of my charges. Muffin is scanning the horizon with the focus of a sniper. Douglas is plodding along with the resigned air of a philosopher who has accepted that life is suffering. And Daisy is doing something I can only describe as a full-body wiggle, her entire back half wagging independently of her front half, as if her excitement is literally splitting her in two.
While I was picking up the dogs, the plan was for Archie to catch an Uber to Hampstead Heath and then navigate on his crutches to a park bench just inside the entrance so he could be close by to give advice.
And sure enough, I spot Archie on a bench, crutches propped beside him, face tilted toward the weak London sun like he’s on vacation rather than supervising my humiliation.
The more time I spend with him, the less and less like Vaughn he seems, even though they look so much alike.
There’s a different energy about Archie, something warm where Vaughn was always polished and cool. Vaughn’s charm was a weapon deployed strategically and retracted when no longer useful. Whereas Archie gives his charm freely, even to men who accidentally broke his ankle.
I’m still not sure what to do with that.
A grin spreads across his face as he spots us approaching. Something loosens inside me at the sight of him. I have backup. Even if that backup is a man with a broken ankle who thinks Captain Giggles is an acceptable professional name.
When we reach him, the dogs immediately crowd around Archie like he’s a celebrity and they’re his adoring fans.
“There’s my beautiful girl,” he says to Muffin, who immediately abandons her sniper-like vigilance to scramble onto the bench and then onto his lap. He scratches under her chin, and she melts into a puddle of contentment.
Douglas lumbers forward for his share of attention, and Archie obliges, one hand on Muffin, the other rubbing Douglas’s velvety ears. A strand of Archie’s hair falls across his eyes, and he blows it away absently, still focused entirely on the dogs.
“Daisy-girl, are you being good?” he asks. Daisy responds by attempting to climb onto the bench as well, tail wagging furiously. Archie laughs, and my stomach does an inconvenient flip.
He looks up at me, still grinning, a tiny Yorkshire Terrier draped across his lap like a furry scarf. “They haven’t killed you yet. I’m impressed.”
“I’m impressed too,” I say wryly.
“Right, before you head off, I need to give you some instructions.” Archie fixes me with a surprisingly serious look, like he’s about to impart nuclear launch codes.
“Let them sniff,” is what he says.
“Let them sniff,” I repeat.
Is it possible to prevent dogs from sniffing?
“I mean, let them sniff as much as they want. I know it seems like they’re just wasting time smelling every blade of grass, but that’s actually the most important part of the walk for them. Dogs have three hundred million olfactory receptors, compared to the six million humans have. When they sniff a tree, they’re getting information we can’t even comprehend, like who’s been there, their age, their health, their mood.”
“So, it’s like reading a really detailed biography written in pee?” I ask.
“Essentially, yes.” Archie’s grin widens. “Depriving dogs of sniff time is like putting noise-canceling headphones on a human and expecting them to navigate a cocktail party.”
I look down at Douglas, who is currently sniffing the bench leg with intense concentration. “I had no idea dog walking required such an advanced understanding of dog behavior.”
“It doesn’t. Just a little patience and a willingness to stand around while a basset hound contemplates the philosophical implications of another dog’s urine. And a realization that dogs need mental stimulation as much as physical exercise. A good sniff session is like Sudoku for dogs.”
“Sudoku for dogs,” I repeat.
“Yes. And my other main tip is to watch which direction their tail is wagging.”
“You mean left or right?”
