There were many times I’d walked Annie, my Labrador mix, in the snow; my L.L. Bean boots leaving tracks next to hers. As the winter days slowly lengthened, the temperature was above average one February afternoon. I drove to Nahant Beach with Annie. She was 14-years old by then.

I guided her out of the car, clipped on her leash and she led me to the beach path from the asphalt lot, over the wooden boards, to the sand. It was low tide. The wind was strong. Annie’s head was up, and her tail wagged. She circled back from the wet sand and found a dry spot to lie down, paws in front of her. Her nose was up, sniffing the air. I crouched next to her, stroking her head and we stayed there for several minutes. Content.

In April, tulips sprouted. A batch, blooming across the street, was on an island with the street sign. They were a delightful variety of colors, glorious.

But one April afternoon, Annie was pacing and panting. I could tell she was in pain. A half a dozen years ago, she kept following me; standing by me, pacing and panting. I knew she expected me to fix the cloudy film that had covered her right eye. I took her to the vet and she lost the eye.  

For a while, Annie napped on her bed next to me.

When she woke, she went right back to pacing and panting. I noticed a growth on her stomach. It was covered in her fine, white hair. The white hair I found behind the television stand, my bedroom dresser, the bookshelves.

I called the vet and they directed me to a veterinary referral hospital in Woburn. They thought her tumor was cancerous, but it would be so hard on her to test for it, to operate. They allowed me to say good-bye and hold her one last time.

When I got home, I was numb. I cried for four days. Then, I noticed that I was humming to myself. I felt less awful. A ghost of Annie kept haunting me, though. She used to sleep at my feet on the rug in the living room. For four days, I thought I could glimpse her, on the floor. But of course, she wasn’t there.

When the veterinary hospital sent me her paw print, ten days had passed.   It had been long enough that I didn’t fall apart. I opened the envelope and knew; the worst was over.

I kept walking, alone. Long walks, like the ones Annie and I used to take and a year later, I left the apartment I shared with her. It had held such sadness. I started anew, in a place with which I am getting reacquainted.

I now live less than a mile from the elementary school where I attended preprimary, first, second and third grade. The school no longer exists, the tan brick building is a community center, now. The old convent, next door to the school, is an “office building” with space available.

At the back of the building is another asphalt lot where we played during recess. As I walk on it, I remember it as much larger. I think of the overcrowded classrooms in which 40 or more of us would sit, trying to grasp phonics. I remember learning to read as one of my greatest pleasures. It still is.

Each morning, I now walk to Crocker Park to watch the boats in the harbor. And I have met several dogs — Jasper, Sadie, Misty, Rip, Lucy – and their owners. If I am on the dock of Crocker Park at 8:00 a.m., I can see the cannon’s smoke from the shot launched each morning by the Eastern Yacht Club, across the harbor from me. On another block in the opposite direction, Abbot Hall rings out the top of each hour from its bell tower.

When the weather cools, there are fewer boats docked every day, in the harbor. The water laps gently onto the boulders beneath me. A small motorboat makes hardly any noise as it goes by. Two people are on it, one at the stern. The other, at the bow, is pulling lobsters out of a trap. He hands some to the person at the stern and though I can’t see the portside of the boat, he appears to throw what must be considered undersized lobsters back into the harbor.

The sun sets earlier each day, now. I walk the half-mile along Front Street to Fort Sewall. The wind is stronger, here, high above the harbor. The waterscape never fails to thrill me and I think of Annie with less sorrow, now. Every dog I meet cheers me. Millie is a charming, light brown spotted dog, who might give me a kiss if I lean down to say “hello” to her.

A longer version, entitled, “Walk,” appeared in the December 2023 issue of ‘Portrait of New England.’