How you walk a noise-sensitive Shiba Inu in downtown Seattle

You keep moving.

Standing allows in too many thoughts. Too much clutter, too much noise. The thoughts turn dark and fearful. Fear paralyzes, and then you’re stuck. So, you keep moving.

If she’s moving, she doesn’t have time to dwell on things. That’s one way you relate with her.

You move down the fifth floor hallway of your apartment building to the elevator. While waiting for the elevator, you pace up and down the lobby. Then it’s down the elevator, out the door, and onto First Avenue

The crosswalk is the first obstacle. You’re forced to wait, so she has time to think. A truck revs its engine and she cowers. A person rides by on a scooter and she cowers.

“We’re almost there, Croissant.” You constantly talk to her in a voice she’s still getting used to. Maybe if she knows you’re not scared, she won’t be scared. “Are you ready for it? Here it comes. Ready? Okay, let’s go.”

You give the leash a slight tug. You’re back to moving and her tail wags.

The Qualtrics Tower stands across the street from your building. That’s where you’re going. Or at least, it’s above where you’re going.

The hills in downtown Seattle are steep. A building with a first floor entrance on First Avenue can have another entrance at its sixth floor on Second Avenue.

Qualtrics Tower got artistic with it. The tower takes up a block from First to Second avenue, but its ground floor is on Second Avenue. Looking at it from First Avenue, you see the tower lifted on stilts. Under those stilts is an entire urban village with shops and bars and cafes.

A bar called Victor Tavern used to dominate this particular urban village, until the tavern went out of business. Now this urban village is empty, making it the best place you’ve found for walking a noise-sensitive Shiba Inu in downtown Seattle.

You tried walking her down Western Avenue, but the cars were too loud. You tried walking her down Post Alley, which was good until one day there was a construction crew and she’s never trusted that alley again. You tried walking her down by the piers with some success, until a ferry blew its horn and ruined that spot.

Finally, you found the urban village under Qualtrics Tower. And now you stand over this dog named after a pastry, begging her to do her business that both you and the dog know it has to do.

“Please, Croissant. I have to go to work. Please drop your load,” you say to Croissant as she looks around, not dropping her load.

Croissant is your girlfriend’s twelve year old Shiba Inu. Like most Shibas, she has red fur on her back and white on her belly.

Shiba’s have a very specific, very undoglike personality that involves minimal barking, minimal emotional expression, and lack of adventurousness. And they sleep with their little red bodies curled in a circle, looking like croissants.

It’s May 2024. At this point, you’ve only been with your girlfriend–and therefore also with Croissant–for just over five months. That means you’re not quite close enough to join her on vacation with her parents for two weeks, but you are close enough to take care of her dog while she’s out.

“Croissant, I have a meeting in fifteen minutes, you really need to drop a load,” you tell her. She knows her name. She knows you’re talking to her. But she doesn’t acknowledge you. Owning a Shiba is effectively owning a cat you need to walk.

You walk her around the full perimeter of this hidden enclave of an urban village. It’s a routine she’s gotten used to in the week you’ve been taking care of her. She walks in step with you up the stairs, past the chairs for the outdoor seating of the abandoned tavern, and towards the alley way that exits onto University Street.

This is where things always get difficult, as you exit the enclave and return to the noise of urban life. Croissant is used to the quiet suburbs where your girlfriend lives.

As you exit towards University Street, Croissant will refuse to walk. She’ll stop moving and the dark thoughts of uncertainty will intrude. Some days, you’ve had to drag her. Other days, you had to pick her up and carry her because fear caused her to cower and shake.

“Okay Croissant, here we go,” you say to her as calmly as you can. “It’s going to be okay. Everything is okay.”

The bustling activity of this area is a problem for Croissant, but it’s what drew you here. After living in the convenient cities of Korea, China, and Thailand, you couldn’t imagine moving back to a typical American town. Imagine living in a place where it’s illegal to build anything except single family housing in the whole neighborhood. Not even one corner market. Every little errand requires getting into a car, buckling up, driving out, finding parking.

In places like that, people’s experience of their community is spent driving past it.

Living in downtown Seattle, you have everything you need within a couple blocks. A couple blocks north is Pike Place Market. East is the beautiful waterfront of Puget Sound. West is one of the busiest public transportation hubs in the US. Which isn’t saying much on a global comparison. The US is underdeveloped for transportation options. But for what exists in this country, it’s excellent.

This is an area built for convenient living. You even sold your car after living here for three months; you weren’t using it.

So you stay here for a year. The lease needs renewing. You decide to sign up for another year. And you realize something.

You’re not moving, and your mind isn’t filling with clutter and noise. You’re not thinking of moving. You’ve already done that so many times. Too many times. Instead of planning escape, you’re ready for a different sort of adventure.

Who this city is not built for, though, is a noise sensitive Shiba Inu named Croissant. And currently you’re walking with that dog towards the alleyway exiting to University Street. You feel the leash lengthening as her pace slows. Then it tugs on your arm as she fully stops.

Turning to look at her, you see the leash is fully extended. She is sitting and shaking. She stopped moving.

You walk back and crouch down next to her. You run your hand slowly but confidently down her red fur, starting at the top of her head and going down towards her tail. You heard dogs enjoy this because it summons nostalgia from their puppy years when their mother would lick to comfort them.

“I get it,” you tell her. “Take as much time as you need. That’s okay.”

You tell her that you’re not going to let anything bad happen to her.

This time when you get up and walk towards the street, the leash doesn’t tug. She takes a step, trepid at first but then growing more confident she walks towards the street. She walks with you.

She’s realizing she can do this with you. And again, you can relate with her.

It never made sense when people said you’re brave for moving to a foreign place. Moving is a reset button. In a new place, you can be a new person.

It’s staying still that’s scary. Staying still means you must commit to the person you are and the choices you’ve made.

But you can’t commit to a person if you can’t commit to a place. And you were ready. You were past ready.

You committed to this place, then hoped the right person would turn up in this place. And she did.

Approaching commitment, the dark thoughts on uncertainty began to intrude. Have you lived alone for too long? Have you become too set in your ways? Do you deserve a relationship?

“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this,” you told her.

“I get it,” she said. “Take as much time as you need. That’s okay.”

It’s going to be okay. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.

She gave you confidence to take a step forward. You committed to a person and no longer feel the need to move to a new place and become a new person. You don’t want a reset button. You want this.