Few things feel more normal than taking your dog for a walk.
It’s a habit you build. Gender, age, race, sun or rain—it doesn’t matter. Walking your dog becomes a ritual all dog owners adopt soon after introducing that beast into their lives—at least if you’re interested in caring for the animal.
In our case, we take the community path along an irrigation ditch and circle back through the neighborhood. Everyone’s routine looks a little different—daily trips to the dog park, endless rounds of fetch, or a nightly pilgrimage to the nearest green space so everyone can burn off some energy before bedtime. The point is, dog lovers do it—day after day—slogging the same familiar paths with man’s best friend.
And someday, we hope our kids will grow up and walk their own dog.
My oldest is now considered “grown-up.” Last year, around the age most kids graduate college, he moved 500 miles from home after taking a job in Seattle working for an American multinational automotive and clean energy company—you know the one—whose ownership managed, in four short months, to anger the entire country. Still, it was a good job and a great opportunity for him to get out on his own. Along the way, he even hinted at getting a dog.
Ironically, I found myself hesitant about the idea. That hesitation forced me to realize I hadn’t fully dealt with my own fear of cutting the apron strings. Getting a dog comes with complications—does your landlord allow pets, should you start with a puppy or adopt, have you considered the monthly expenses, the vet bills, and of course, will you actually walk the dog?
“Sure—move out on your own, get your first apartment, feed yourself, purchase auto insurance, decide whether you want to brush your teeth or make your bed. Heck, you’re old enough to buy a gun or weigh the pros and cons of legalized marijuana. But whatever you do—don’t buy a dog.”
It sounds stupid when you say it out loud. But there it was. I was afraid my kid wasn’t mature enough to walk his own dog.
Yet week after week, month after month, we watched him succeed at the little things—paying rent, brushing his teeth, and avoiding being physically assaulted by protestors screaming insults about where he worked. Slowly, a realization dawned on me: he might actually be old enough to have his own dog.
Then we got good news. No—not that he was getting a dog. He was coming home.
He’d secured a transfer to a dealership in our community and asked if I could come up to help him pack and drive the U-Haul.
“Congrats—of course. When’s the big day?”
We made arrangements. I’d fly to Seattle, and because his lease ended on his final day of work, I’d arrive a couple of days early to clean and pack his apartment.
When the week came, I landed in Seattle and arrived to find a surprisingly tidy place—packing supplies purchased, boxes filled and stacked. Apparently my adult son was on top of things. That Friday, I drove with him to work and waited in the lobby for an hour before U-Haul opened. The plan was for him to drive me the 2.3 miles at our appointment time on his break. But when it was time to leave, he was tied up and couldn’t get away. I texted him from the waiting room that I’d be happy to walk.
“Walk?” he texted back. “…in Seattle?”
“Sure. The rain won’t hurt me,” I replied.
“I wasn’t worried about the rain. Just take my keys—we’ll figure out my car later,” he fired back.
“I’m a grown adult and it’s 9 a.m. I’ll let you know when I get there,” I said, setting off.
Half a mile in, I was enjoying the walk—breathing in the freshness that light rain brings even to a big city. This had been the right choice. It was everything you’d expect from a Seattle stroll: cloudy skies, beautiful trees, green everywhere. I passed coffee shops, cannabis dispensaries, and what felt like alternating pho and teriyaki restaurants on every corner.
But as I went, I began to understand my son’s concern. Graffiti covered buildings. Signs of homelessness were everywhere—abandoned underwear, socks, urine bottles littering the street. At a bus stop, I noticed the automatic ticket machines had been vandalized. Then I saw a dead cat on the sidewalk, clearly decomposing for months, its ribs showing through dehydrated skin.
I had just decided I was glad to be walking this stretch in daylight when my phone buzzed.
“Everything alright?”
It was my son—checking in on me. I’d been gone twelve minutes, and he was worried, like I was a newly licensed driver on my first solo trip.
I toyed with snarky replies—“I just grabbed a coffee from the Bikini Mocha Drive-Thru, then headed into the Adult Video Bookstore”—but settled on the universal thumbs-up emoji. No need to get sarcastic.
That’s when I saw the guy walking his dog a short distance ahead of me—a little sign of normalcy and adulting in the rain. I couldn’t quite make out the breed, but it was small and energetic, darting into the landscaping of nearby businesses. I assumed it was on a retractable leash. I lost sight of them as I crossed a busy intersection.
A block later, I realized my mistake. The guy wasn’t walking a dog. Or even a cat. He was walking an RC truck.
I swear it looked like a dog from a distance. Even when we passed each other, it felt like he was walking a pet—from the way he held the remote near his body to how he guided the RC truck into a gentle “trot” ahead of him. As we passed, he even nodded at me, just as a dog owner would, as if to say, Thanks for being patient with my ill-mannered canine.
I have no idea whether he was demoing a new model for a shop down the street or was a grown man suffering from Peter Pan syndrome. But in that moment, I realized what I’d truly feared for my son—not that he’d get a dog, but that he might never grow up.
My phone buzzed again. “You there yet?”
Here I was, walking to pick up a U-Haul my son had paid for himself, two states away from home, after he’d navigated groceries, traffic, and adult life just fine—and I was worried about him growing up? Of course I was. Worried he wouldn’t make enough money, buy a home, get married, have kids, or walk his stupid dog.
And suddenly it struck me—my worries were about as helpful as another text that read, “Let me know if you need anything.”
I picked up the U-Haul without issue, packed most of it before he got off work, and left the next morning. He stayed behind to wrap up loose ends and drive his car home the following day. That long drive gave me plenty of time to wrestle with the unhelpful fears I’d somehow tied to dog ownership and adulthood.
On one hand, maybe it wouldn’t be wise for him to buy a pet just yet. It could easily become a situation where the tail wagged the dog. But on the other hand—what good was my worrying doing either of us?
A friend once told me about adult kids, “You have to be okay with their decisions being different than yours. And dumber.”
So what if he buys a dog? He’ll figure it out. He’ll just add it to the long list of chores he gets to call life—along with brushing his teeth and amortizing a mortgage.
In the meantime, I’m going to go walk my dog—and try not to hover.
Copyright 2026 John