The Hippo Who Wanted to Go Home

For most of my life, I never had time for myself.

So when Tobby came into our home, one of my very first thoughts was a selfish, happy one: now I will have walks. Every single day. Long, slow, beautiful walks. Finally, an hour that belongs to me, and nobody can take it away, because the dog needs it.

I had already pictured them. Me, strolling proudly down the avenue like the ladies in old films, chin up, coat flowing, the elegant companion trotting at my side. People turning their heads. Autumn leaves. Possibly music.

What the books say

Labradors, I read, are active dogs. They love to move. The ideal daily walk for this breed is an hour, sometimes more. I was delighted. An hour! Every day! I bought good shoes.

What Tobby says

Now let me tell you how long Tobby’s walk actually lasts.

Seven minutes.

On a very good day, with fresh air and an interesting smell or two, it might stretch to eight. But seven minutes is the standard. Out the door, a few important sniffs, one or two official business stops, a quick check that the neighbourhood is still where he left it, and that’s it. Walk complete. Mission accomplished. Home, please.

Some of you may remember that Tobby used to pull like a locomotive. He still can. But these days, the locomotive only goes in one direction: towards our front door.

The sit-down strike

Of course, I have tried to walk him longer. I’m not giving up on my avenue so easily.

So we turn left instead of right. We take the long way round. And somewhere in the middle of the pavement, Tobby stops. Not slowly. Not gradually. He simply sits down, right there, like a hippo that has decided it is far too heavy to take even two more steps.

And then he looks at me.

I wish you could see that look. It is confusion, mixed with deep personal offence. Like a gentleman who has been asked to carry his own luggage. His eyes say everything very clearly:

This is humiliating. Don’t you know it’s time to go home now?

And then, after a little pause, the real question:

How long exactly do I have to walk you?

Because that, I’ve realised, is how Tobby sees it. He isn’t being walked. He is walking me. Kindly, patiently, seven minutes a day, because he knows I need it. And when he decides I’ve had enough fresh air, he takes me home.

My little hippo

So no, I never got my elegant strolls down the avenue. No flowing coat, no admiring glances, no autumn soundtrack.

Instead, I have a big brown hippo who sits down in the middle of the pavement and refuses to move until I agree with him. Who turns every attempt at a long walk into a small negotiation. Who looks at me with such tired dignity that, every single time, I laugh and give in.

We walk home. He trots ahead now, suddenly light as a feather, tail high, delighted. The hippo has vanished. The locomotive is back. Home is in sight.

And I think: maybe I didn’t get the walk I imagined. But I got seven minutes a day with someone who is completely, honestly himself. Who never pretends to enjoy something he doesn’t. Who knows exactly when he’s had enough, and says so.

Maybe I could learn a thing or two from my little hippo.

Did you ever have a lovely plan that turned out completely different, and somehow better? Tell me. Tobby would like to know he’s not the only one who ruins plans beautifully.

With love, and a wet nose from Tobby

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