Wally Takes a Walk

Fresh air was a mistake.

In a rare lapse of judgment, I had convinced myself that going for a walk would somehow improve my mood. Maybe get my head on straight. Instead, I was sweating in a hoodie, trailing behind my dog, Duke, who was treating every blade of grass like it held the meaning of life.

He stopped to pee on a tree. Then another. Then a third attempted, but nothing happened. He was just making a statement at this point.

“Duke, we’ve talked about this. You can’t fight every jogger or pee on every tree. It’s bad PR for small dogs.”

Duke did not care. Duke was his own man.

A particularly fit jogger slowed as she passed, glancing at me. I tried to look normal, which only made me self-conscious.

“Cute dog,” she said with a smile.

I opened my mouth to respond. Duke farted as if he’d been building up back-pressure since 2021. The jogger blinked, sped up, and didn’t look back. Even my dog was actively preventing me from dating.

A few minutes later, I plopped onto a park bench, letting my head fall back against the wood. The sky was overcast, a dull stretch of gray that perfectly matched my mood. Ducks glided smoothly across the pond, undisturbed by any commotion from my side. Meanwhile, Duke sniffed aggressively at the grass, possibly plotting against nature.

The past week flashed through my mind: rejected by Jessica, barely surviving speed dating, meeting Megan—a woman who didn’t immediately flee. Progress? Maybe?

Or maybe I was doomed to be a man who talked to his dog more than people.

A goose honked aggressively. Duke barked, possibly declaring war.

I blew a hard breath, leaned back, and pulled out my phone.

Maybe I should text Megan. You know, be proactive for once. A normal, confident man would. A normal, confident man would send a casual, flirty message without spiraling into fourteen different worst-case scenarios.

Meanwhile, I was gripping my phone like it was a live grenade. Maybe I should pretend I lost it and move to another state. Equal options.

Before I could decide, my phone rang. Caller ID: Mom.

Oh, for the love of—

I hesitated. Let it go to voicemail? No. That only made it worse.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, honey! You doing okay?”

“Yep. Totally fine. Nothing eventful happening.”

“Oh, good! Because Marge Millard just called me and said she saw you in the park wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. Do you need me to come over and do your laundry?”

I nearly choked on air. Looked around. Who the hell was Marge Millard?

Duke, completely uninterested in my drama, was now sniffing a trash can.

“Mom, what—how? Why is Marge Millard tracking my wardrobe choices?” I glanced around like some rogue senior citizen might be lurking behind a tree, ready to report my disheveled existence back to HQ.

“She’s not tracking! She just happened to see you while she was out with her walking group. And she was concerned!”

“Concerned about what?”

“Well, honey, you don’t usually dress like that unless something’s wrong. Are you depressed? Are you drinking too much? Should I call Pastor Dave?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Mom. I’m fine. I’m just… walking my dog.”

“Are you sure? You know you can tell me things.”

“Yes, I know. Which is why I am now telling you: please stop accepting surveillance reports from Marge Millard.”

“Well, that’s just rude, Wally.”

Duke suddenly lunged at a goose, yanking me forward like an unwilling sled dog. I made a noise that, if played back, could easily be mistaken for a car crash. The jogger from earlier passed by again, giving me a ‘please control your demon dog’ look.

Mom, hearing the commotion: “Is that Duke? Is he getting enough fiber?”

I gave up. “Mom, I gotta go. I’ll call you later.”

“Do you promise?”

“…Sure.” (No. Never.)