Walking

WALKING

JOE PANCAKE had never owned a pet. Unless you count all the goldfish he'd won at elementary school carnivals every year back in Glendale, California (and that had died before the next year's batch could be won again). Or the hamster he had for about a year and a half. But she died too, long after he had lost all interest in her. So--in the context of what most people think of as pets--that is, dogs and cats--he'd had none. For better or for worse. Joe never felt deprived because of it. Indeed, there were always enough dogs and cats in the neighborhood to go around. And if ever he did feel the need to pet or cuddle or hold one of them for an afternoon, the neighbors were always more than willing to let him come over and share in their amusement. But, to be perfectly honest, he seldom gave the matter much thought.
One evening, years later, living in his new home in Orem, Utah, and after a particularly long day of writing letters, playing his guitar and harmonica, reading a couple stories from an anthology, and taking a bike ride up the canyon, Joe Pancake decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. It was lateB-after eleven, anyway--and generally quiet as he walked slowly down one street, turned, continued a few blocks more, and then began his return home. A few cars drove past, but Orem, where Joe lived anyway, was pretty much a residential area, and the streets were, for the most part, empty of activity. He was still a block or so from home, returning by an alternate route, when, from out of the night came the sound of a barking dog. Joe was startled at first. His walk, up until then, had been restful--just what he needed. But then he felt a vague stirring of guilt as he looked around at the many darkened homes, the residents certainly asleep. The dog was barking--barking at him--and so he hurried on home before waking anyone.
Once back, he went to bed almost immediately. But he could not get to sleep, thinking of the day's events--especially the walk, the incident with the dog. His thoughts began to tumble about, as they often did at night: he thought of all the pets across the country, the dogs and the cats and the birds and the mice and the. . . ; and he thought of the pet food industry; and where the food for the pet food industry comes from--and who it takes away from. He thought of the thousands of human beings who die each day of starvation. And then Joe thought of his right to walk down a street--in peace; and thought again of the tens of thousands who were dying--dying that very moment--slow, painful, agonizing deaths, most of them; and he thought of the pet food industry; and his right to walk down a street in Orem, Utah, unharassed; and the deaths--again, the slow, painful, agonizing deaths--thousands of them--everyday. By starvation. Every day. And before falling off into a troubled sleep, he thought of the owners of the millions of dogs and cats in this nation of his, and of his own right to walk down a street in peace, without being assaulted by the barks that come from the mouths of dogs that eat far better than do much of the rest of humanity.
And when he awoke the next morning, he thought, I'm glad I never owned a pet.
One evening, about a week later, Joe Pancake got up from the chair where he had been reading and put on an overcoat and hat. Just before opening the door and walking out into the night, he glanced at the clock on the wall: twelve after midnight.
Outside, the sky was clear, and the night was cold. Joe's breath hung in the air. He reached into his coat pockets and took out a pair of gloves and pulled them on over his hands. Then he walked down the street, turned, and proceeded a few more blocks. Even in the cold, he was enjoying his walk, taking it slowly, as all good walks should be taken. About a half block from his destination, he slowed even more and began to purposely click the sidewalk with the soles of his shoes. Accidently, he kicked a small piece of ice he had not seen, but when he came upon it again, he kicked it again. Hard. It bounded down the sidewalk and then dropped off the curb and fell into the gutter. Just after it came to a rest, Joe heard the sound he was really listening for: the dog. Its bark was loud and low, and as he approached the yard of the house from where it came, it grew more confident. At the fence he stopped. It would not be long now, he knew. The dog's barking soon set off a chorus of neighborhood dogs, and the entire area sounded and came to life. Even Joe was surprised by the number. Every yard, it seemed, had a dog in it. Serve 'em right, he thought.
Joe Pancake waited, letting the barking get good and rousing. When he saw a few lights from the surrounding houses come on, he turned and walked back home and went to bed.