At About 6:30 Each Evening.

The daily ritual of two stubborn West Highland terriers—and the lesson they never meant to teach me.

Almost every evening at around 6:30, my two West Highland Terriers begin their theatrics. Toby is eight, and the boy. Malibu is four, and the girl. Toby climbs onto the back of the brown leather couch where I spend too much of my time, comes up behind me and begins licking my ears. I pull away, not merely because I dislike the sensation of a dog's tongue on my ear, but in full knowledge that this isn’t some touching symbol of canine devotion. It’s manipulation. Toby has just started the nightly walk ritual.

Malibu is more direct. She has the more assertive personality of the two and cares less about subtlety. She stands defiantly on the hardwood floor, locks eyes and begins fiercely wagging her carrot-shaped white tail; her triangular white ears rise and dip; she stamps her feet, her nails clicking. If I seem unpersuaded, she goes up on her hind feet and paws furiously at the air, then backs up and performs the entire ritual again: it’s time to go for a walk.

They won’t stop the show until we head upstairs, so eventually, I submit. I gather up the equipment: two leashes, blue for Toby, pink for Malibu. With an influx of teenagers on green electrified rental scooters and cyclists who have never discovered bells or lights, I need to be cautious and always keep the lead short.

A thermos specially for dogs, with a dog bowl cleverly screwed into the bottom, is in my other hand, along with two poop bags and, especially after dark, a coyote stick. The coyote stick isn’t really a coyote stick; Amazon call it a trucker tire testing stick, but for me it’s a defence against my dogs turning into a coyote’s dinner.

Coyotes occasionally appear on the path, especially at dusk. I’m sure the people in the dog park think my coyote stick reeks of hypervigilance and paranoia, but I don’t own a Labrador, German Shepherd or Cane Corso that could put up a good fight. I own two small white terriers who I suspect, from a distance, look like white furry appetizers to a hungry coyote. The other problem is that my two terriers are lovable idiots.

One evening, a coyote followed my daughter home when she was walking the dogs, and as my daughter walked faster and became more and more frightened, the dogs took the contrary approach, turning around whimpering, yelping, desperately excited to meet their new dog friend who actually was a coyote.

A coyote-Westie terrier friendship association was not forthcoming, but unfortunately, if the dog whisperers were right, my dog’s whimpering signalled to the coyote that my dogs were injured and only increased the coyote’s prey drive. When my daughter told me, I, of course, handled it rationally and sensibly like an adult.

I sprinted out the door in stocking feet, with my coyote stick, dashing down our residential street screaming at the coyote. I knew I had no chance of catching it or any intention of striking it. My goal was educational. I wanted the coyote to form a permanent association between trailing a pair of West Highland Terriers and being pursued into the forest by an enraged, heavy-breathing, middle-aged man shouting at the top of his lungs- what the experts would call coyote hazing.

My neighbours might call my behaviour a manic disorder, but I dispatched the coyote into the forest.

But as to this evening's walk - I’m not even sure Toby cares if he gets off the street. The pursuit of olfactory delights is his mission, along with depositing urine on every standing object. He stops with the finality of a toddler. He does not slow down. He does not gently apply the brake. He simply refuses to move forward; his braking system is the canine equivalent of slamming both feet on the brake and embedding the passenger’s forehead in the windshield.

Apparently, if some other dog has urinated on the spot, Toby is deathly convinced his own urine must be added to the record. Why this is so important for him, I can’t say; I assume it has something to do with his lupine genetic memory, or hormones, or perhaps he just likes pissing on things.

But in a world where every tree trunk and pole serves as both a bulletin board and a guest book, Toby is determined to mark every 20 feet.

When we reach a long fence, he drifts slowly beside it, searching for the perfect location. He moves down the fence like a melancholy teenager, lingering at the edge of a school dance, but he’s not melancholy. He’s not shy. He just isn’t in a hurry. That’s why it’s not accurate to describe our outing as a walk. It’s a slow, urine-expeditionary and discovery tour.

Malibu is different - her primary obsession isn't territory. It’s other dogs. When she spots another dog in the distance, she reacts like a castaway seeing a ship on her horizon. She is consumed with urgency - that Bichon walking on the opposite side of the road must be met; it’s a matter of immediate diplomatic importance.

Then there are the skunks. We have encountered a half dozen of them, and when a skunk appears, 1000 years of predatory, rat-catching, wolf-descended passion suddenly awakens in these two small white canines; they lose their mind. Regan in the Exorcist levitating over the bed and spinning her head around was, in comparison, like someone enjoying a restful afternoon nap; every inch of Toby and Malibu strains towards the skunk.

I was holding Toby by the lead, but his sister slipped the collar and was now ready to launch herself directly into the firing line of an animal preparing to engage in chemical warfare. The skunk, though, just released a warning burst; Malibu stopped short of catastrophe. I gathered her up, and we began to walk home, and to any observer once again, I was a middle-aged lunatic screaming bloody murder at two dogs who could not understand me, or decided that my opinion was unimportant.

“What were you thinking? Do you understand what happened? You cannot chase skunks.”

They offered no defence. No wonder my neighbours don’t invite me to their parties. I stripped off any clothing with skunk aroma, threw them in the laundry basket and sent the dogs into the backyard. Later, my wife makes me move the clothing directly to the washer and asks me what I was thinking.

But today at the enclosed dog park, Toby and Malibu are released from their leads; a squirrel chatters along the top of a fence, and my terriers aren't discouraged by their squat bodies and six-inch legs. This will be the night they capture the squirrel. Yet they have accumulated no evidence whatsoever that they possess either the speed or the tactical sophistication to catch one, but none of this discourages them.

I throw the ball. Sometimes they tear after it in a glorious sprint, racing across the grass and leaping as it bounces over their heads. For several seconds, they look like athletes. Other times, they run halfway toward it and get distracted. Oh look, another dog; oh look, a tree; oh look, a human. The ball is abandoned, and I end up playing fetch with myself.

Occasionally, they play with an Australian Shepherd puppy or a large Labrador. Toby sometimes decides to reprimand a full-grown husky six times his size; the husky generally backs away. I don’t believe it’s because the husky is genuinely frightened. I think it’s a calculation that this dog is 1/10 my size, and if he is behaving aggressively, he must have a weapon or be completely insane.

I do not mind being at the park.

It’s the journey there that wears me down, the random sudden stops, the squirrels, the lunges towards strange dogs and the constant sensation that one of my shoulders is about to be removed from a socket. The carrying of a warm turd in a green bag until we pass the park’s trash bin is also no great pleasure; my hands are full, and putting a bagged dog turd in one’s hoodie pouch is unwise. At least I’m not one of those monsters who throw the bag in the bushes.

At the dog park, the regulars are all there. They welcome Toby and Malibu and the gang of Dookie, Bella, Reilly, Taxi, Charlie, Pippen, Luna and Rosie cluster near the picnic bench like nervous kids at their first junior high dance.

You can speak to the same person five meetings a week for three years; you will probably know the bowel movement history of their golden retriever, remember which treats upset the dog‘s stomach and still have no idea whether the man is called Brian or Steve.

After about a half hour, we head home. My conscience is sated. I feel the dogs have had their exercise. I fulfilled my duty, and now everyone can settle down with a clear conscience. I dump the water from the dog thermos into the plant under the stoop, and the walk is over.

But calling what we did a walk gives it an order and dignity it doesn't have. It’s a random berserk ramble with no coherent direction. It’s a succession of violent stops, starts, and lunges, territorial announcements, abandoned tennis balls, imagined squirrel victories, and one-sided conversations between a man and two creatures.

My dogs, though, always accept my admonishments graciously.

And then the next evening around 6:30, Toby climbs on the back of the couch and begins licking my ears; the performance begins again.

But the truth is that one day there will be no sudden stops at the fence post, no frantic pursuit of a squirrel, no tennis ball left abandoned in the middle of the park and no small white dog staring at me as though the most important event in the evening is about to begin.

That is the day my heart will be broken.

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