An Ode to No-Pull Gizmos

Every so often, social media introduces me to the last no-pull harness I will ever need. Or leash. Or some ingenious gizmo that promises to make walking a dog feel less like being selected for a sled team. The dogs in the ads stroll along with the serene purpose of people who have already made their peace with the world. Somewhere, a person watched a golden retriever drag his owner down a sidewalk and thought, I can solve this with a buckle.

The front-clip harness arrived and went on snug, fitted to the manufacturer’s diagram. Captain wore it to the end of the driveway, where he noticed THAT tree. He looked at the tree, then at me, and you could watch him work the numbers. “Yes, the tree will take some effort. Kevin’s will has never been a factor.” He leaned into the harness . . . sideways . . . like a tugboat with a barge in tow, and by the time we got home it was two sizes larger than when we left. The same can be said of the sleeve length of my right arm.

Morgan walked beside me the whole way in a loose harness and a perfect heel, having decided early that whatever was at the tree could not possibly be worth the trouble.

Then came the handheld device that emitted a tone only the Boyz could hear, designed to redirect their attention. On the next walk I pressed the button. A beagle two yards over sat down. A shepherd behind a fence went rigid. Every dog within fifty yards stood at attention like someone had started the national anthem. Captain kept pulling toward his tree.

All of it now rests in a cardboard box in the far corner of the garage, labeled in Belinda’s handwriting: DOG FAILS. It is a large box, and there is still room in it… for now.