Taking His Licks as the Summer Tumbles By

We’re going for a walk on a summer’s night, the little cocker spaniel pulling and pulling along the still-warm suburban pavement. His own Iditarod. Baked Alaska.

“Mush,” I say, as he pulls me down one street, then up another.

“You’re an animal,” I tell him, exaggerating only a little.

And he pulls and pulls till I snap the leash, which is his signal to quit pulling and lick the barbecue sauce off my ankle. I never taught him to lick the barbecue sauce off my ankle. Somehow, he just knows.

“Listen,” I say, and he stops to listen to the freeway half a mile away.

It’s our ocean, this freeway. At least that’s what a real estate agent once told us. “Sounds like the ocean,” she said--the soft whoosh of cars, the rumble of trucks.

“Tide’s coming in,” I tell the dog, and he believes me, then licks my ankle again.

“Mush,” I say.

Each night, we take this walk. Each night he pulls and pulls, and I hold on tight, walking a mile, maybe two. Sometimes I bring a beer in case one of us overheats.

“I’m hot,” he always says, mostly with his eyes.

“Just keep walking,” I tell him.

I can’t imagine summer without a dog, without taking these lazy walks on long June evenings when the sun takes two hours to set, always lingering, the sky sort of buttery.

“Slow down,” I tell him, because little dogs are like little men, bursting with energy, always in a rush.

“Just slow down,” I say, savoring summer.

Not once have we ever gotten lost. We wander out across this maze of suburban streets and houses that all look alike, and not once have we ever gotten lost. Confused maybe. Disoriented, always. But never lost.

“Where are we going next?” I ask him.

And he pulls me around the corner.

“I’m hot,” he says again, looking at my beer.

“Just keep walking,” I tell him.

As we head up the next street, I tell him about some of the great places I’ve walked. Chicago. New Orleans. Des Moines.

“Pasadena’s nice,” I tell him. “You’d like Pasadena.”

I tell him about all the great shade trees in Pasadena. And all the fire hydrants. The bushes.

“Pasadena might be the dog-walking capital of America,” I tell him, exaggerating only a little.

And finally, we head for home, lured back by the sound of a kitchen blender playing softly in the distance, played by someone who knows what he’s doing. Blend. Puree. Liquefy. Songs for a summer’s night.

“If we’re lucky, they’ll make us something,” I say as we turn in the driveway.

“Mush,” I tell him one last time.

Sometimes the people who live here greet us on the porch, coughing their summer coughs, welcoming us home like the cast of Cirque du Soleil, tumbling and sailing through the air, crawling over each other, then stepping on my hand.

“Thanks,” I say as I sit on the porch steps.

“What for, Dad?” they ask.

“For stepping on my hand,” I say.

“Sorry,” they all say, not sure exactly which one of them stepped on my hand. Might’ve been all three.

And they stand around for a while, sniffing the warm night air, watching the stars, listening to the freeway.

“Tide’s coming in,” the boy says, and the dog licks his ankle.

They are summer kids, their skin still holding in the day’s heat, like the pavement we just walked on.

They live mostly in towels, spending their afternoons squeezing pool water from their hair and dripping Popsicles onto their stomachs.

At night, they mostly drip watermelon, and those icy drinks they make in the blender.

One of the kids is still wearing sunglasses--the short one, which is the one you always need to beware of.

“I can feel his heart,” she says, crawling over my back.

“Where?” the others ask, talking as if I’m not even around.

“Right here,” says the little red-haired girl, her hand approximately where my kidneys should be.

“That’s his wallet,” the boy says.

“No, that’s his heart,” the little girl says.

The rest of the evening continues pretty much like this. Somebody spills her strawberry smoothie in my hair. Someone else lifts my wallet. Someone steps on my hand again.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Sorry,” they all say.

In the distance, a police car sings.

“What’s going on out here?” their mother asks as she joins us on the porch.

“Mostly, I’m being mugged,” I say.

“I have his wallet,” the boy says.

“Here, feel his heart,” the little girl says.

“Want to go for a walk?” their mother asks.

“Thought you’d never ask,” I say.

And back down the driveway we go.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.