David W. Berner - Walks with Sam: A Man, a Dog, and a Season of Awakening

Thoroughly delightful. David W. Berner describes his beloved dog Sam as a teacher of the perfect way to move in the world. And with that, Berner embarks on a season of dog walks, mindfully following Sams lead in opening himself more fully to the thoughts, perceptions, and encounters that cross their path. Effortlessly runs the gamut from the profundity of Berners musing on mortality, to the surprises that lurk within the seemingly mundane. A lovely testimony to the ways in which intention transforms our experience of our own lives.

Barbara Monier, author of Pushing the River

As Kierkegaard once wisely said, If you just keep walking, everything will be all right. On a sabbatical from teaching, author David W. Berner begins a series of daily walks with his dog Sam. What from outward appearance to others would appear to be a regular jaunt to exercise a beloved pet is inwardly a reflective journey as the world is explored by both two and four-legged friend. Each walk takes its tone from the lay of the land, from the people and dogs they meet, from the signs of a society that has forgotten how to slow down in wonder and empathy.

With gentle humor and brilliant musings, both past and present, Walks with Sam has the charm and the innate truthfulness that some find in a work of art, a daily quest tinged with wonder and mystery with each forward step.

L.B. Johnson, Amazon #1 Best-Selling Author of The Book of Barkley Love and Life Through the Eyes of a Labrador Retriever

An element that is a constant in Davids writing is his enormous sense of humanity. He is as much a philosopher of the porch swing variety as anyone writing today.

San Francisco Review of Books

This is a sweet book from a sincere, thoughtful soul. As Thoreau found the whole world in his saunterings around Concord, Berner finds it walking his beloved dog Sam in an ordinary suburban neighborhood. His musings have a lovely, quiet inwardness, as he contemplates youth and age, continuity and change, community and solitude, love and envy, mourning and celebration all with the subtle guidance of the dog he calls the most mindful monk I know, a teacher of the perfect way to move in the world.

Dean Sluyter, author of Natural Meditation and Fear Less

First published by Roundfire Books, 2020
Roundfire Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., No. 3 East St., Alresford,
Hampshire SO24 9EE, UK
www.johnhuntpublishing.com
www.roundfire-books.com

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David W. Berner 2019

ISBN: 978 1 78904 498 0
978 1 78904 499 7 (ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019949663

All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

The rights of David W. Berner as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Design: Stuart Davies

UK: Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
US: Printed and bound by Thomson-Shore, 7300 West Joy Road, Dexter, MI 48130

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Also by David W. Berner

October Song: A Memoir of Music and the Journey of Time

The Consequence of Stars: A Memoir of Home

A Well-Respected Man: A Novel

Night Radio: A Love Story Accidental Lessons: The Memoir of a Rookie Teacher and a Life

Renewed

Any Road Will Take You There: A Journey of Fathers and Sons

Theres a Hamster in the Dashboard: A Life in Pets

For Sally, Sadie, Soupy, Hogan, Mike, Dakota, and Sam.

Ive seen a look in dogs eyes, a quickly vanishing look of amazed contempt, and I am convinced that basically dogs think humans are nuts.

John Steinbeck, Travels with Charley

It was the summer of 1963 and my best friend was moving away. He lived a block up the street in a brick bungalow, and on many summer days after elementary school had let out for the season, Mark and I would build forts on the homes wide stone porch. We draped a bed sheet over an old chair and a couch his parents had planted there, and with our green plastic Army guns we would climb inside, preparing ourselves to battle the Nazi soldiers who would soon be coming over the hill. We played for hours, pretending we were under fire from a determined enemy, an enemy we would always overcome. During a break from the skirmishes, his mother would bring us lemonade. As we refreshed ourselves under the billowing sheet, there beside us standing guard was my dog.

Sally was a tri-colored collie given to me by my grandfather, my mothers dad, just a few months after I was born. A boy needs to grow up with a dog, he told my mother when he came to the door, the eight-week old puppy in his arms. From the time I could walk, Sally was right there with me. She followed me on walks in the woods. She came along when I visited my grandmothers home a block away. And on that porch up the street on that hot day in August decades ago, Sally was there. Not only keeping an eye out for Nazi soldiers, but also reminding me she would never leave me, even if my friend would soon leave forever.

When you are seven years old, you struggle to understand the concept of change, that things would not always stay the same. I knew my friend was moving, he told me so, but I could not comprehend what that truly meant. People in my world did not move away. My parents grew up on the same street where I grew up. My grandparents lived a few houses away. My aunt and cousins lived on a parallel street, a five-minute walk from my home. Changesomeone leavingseemed a dreadful concept.

The day of the move, a long, tall truck parked on the street outside Marks door. Big men moved tables and chairs, box after box, table lamps, dressers, and trunks. Mark and I stood in the front yard and shook hands. I guess Ill see ya, Mark said. When? I asked. Mark did not answer.

On the slow walk home with Sally at my side, I tried not to think about what was happening. How far could he really be going? Maybe hed still be at school? I stroked the top of Sallys head and rubbed behind her ear. She nuzzled against my hip. Youre a good girl, I murmured. I was certain that no matter what was happening with my friend, Sally would stay. She would always be my dog, always be my friend. She was not packing her things into a moving truck that would rumble down the street and out of sight.

About halfway to my house, I stopped and sat in the grass along the sidewalk. I wasnt ready to go home. Sally sat next to me and curled up to rest her head on my knee. For a good while, the two of us silently sat, waiting for my confused feelings to go away. I patted Sallys back. She licked my hand. I hugged her around the neck and held on for a long time. When we started to walk again, we did not head straight home. Instead we took the long way, through the backyards, across the alley, and down another street. We ambled over a hill dotted with evergreen trees and through a stretch of maples near a creek. Time stood still. Sally and I were less than a few tenths of a mile from home, but looking back, we were walking a great distance from one thing and closer to something new. I didnt know this then, but I believe that time with Sally was my first encounter with the beauty and redemptive power of a contemplative walk, and especially a walk with ones dog. The little boy in me would not have comprehended this, but in time I would realize how that day was my first lesson on how a journey, even a short one, could deliver solace, how you could make things right by putting one foot in front of the other. Kierkegaarda famous daily walkeronce wrote in a letter to his favorite niece who had been struggling with personal problemsIf you just keep walking, everything will be all right. This little boy knew nothing of Kierkegaard. But he knew how he felt after that walk with his dog, his constant companion.