Billy, above, is mainly Julia's dog, but he has become part of the business when it's just him and me at the workshop. I've given him a role in Customer Relations, but he is sometimes a bit too enthusiastic in his work.
Being rescued from some sort of urban situation, his country walks are fairly straight-forward affairs; mainly concerned with avoiding any sort of wildlife and staying as close to our legs as possible. But it is a different story when we're at work in town. Walking is a mission. An artform. He is the first male dog we've had. Our female dogs attended to bladder issues simply and directly, much preferring to sniff actual dogs than their sign-posts.
But Billy has taught me to walk very slowly, not exactly smelling the roses, but something in that vein. His first desire in the morning is to check his p-mails, but he does so in a tedious series of log-ins that stretches the perimeter of his claimed territory. Before I've even logged-in, he is at me for a second round, because things of the second priority cannot be done while re-establishing dominance after a night's rest.
Slow Walking. It has a nice ring to it. Perhaps there are benefits for those of us who are habitually goal-oriented, simply to saunter, and pause at every post.
When sailing on our Waller 540, Billy chooses to occupy the locker under Julia, carefully finding the opposite one as we all change sides on a tack. But I made those lockers a bit low when his girth is increased by his PFD, so it is a bit of a squeeze. The up-side of that is that it is harder to fall out of the locker in a sudden lifting gust.