I walk dogs.
It was not a career of choice but just sort of happened. Years ago, a client was planning a two-week vacation to Jellystone National Park and needed both a house sitter and a dog(s) sitter. "Please, watch our dogs and eat our food and stay in our beautiful chateau on the lake." Yours truly replied, "Okay."
Well, to the present. Ilsa's AKC-issue creme-de-la-creme leash is leading her sister canine some 20 miles from my present location. Left behind is a serviceable but sadly worn, skimpy red leash, knotted and frayed. It shouts imperceptibly, while I clasp it to the hardy Husky's sturdy neck, "I'm a frayed knot! I'm a frayed knot."
I'm the one who's afraid not; it won't hold the pooch's tugs and pulls.
We're on our way -- it's the usual, spotting a deer, a squirrel, and my reining in this pure, white-hot power. In moments after our start, I sense a change in the aspect of the sky, the earth beneath, the feel of the red leash in my now-trembling hand.
The tired little dog-bone-patterned cord takes on a life of its own and becomes magically transformed into the magnificence of canine-restraining cordage it was meant to be! "The Dog and I" (a prospective book title?) began doing the wildest capers: skipping rope (a lengthened leash) in tandem; describing arcs with our somersaulting bodies; taking skyward leaps, meters from the asphalt beneath. No little audience was in attendance, adults with jaws to their feet, tiny children squealing with glee, clapping their little paws till they turned beet red.
Just another day, walking a very special dog with her very special red leash.