The land around where I live in Oakland has rolling hills. It reminds me of the landscape in North Berkeley, where I lived for part of college. The hills make it feel less like downtown Oakland. Though you can hear the rush of motorcycles not too far away, you can also feel the peaceful rustling of the wind and hear birds chirping in the morning.

I walk Ducky, my house dog, to Piedmont Park. Well, actually, we run. When we walk, Ducky gets distracted and sometimes eats poop on the ground, or fights with other dogs, or chases down runners — none of which are desirable. So, we run. Ducky’s a great runner, actually! She’s both my running coach and my buddy. On the days when I don’t feel like getting up to run before work, I think about Ducky and how she needs to be run and how happy it’ll make her feel.

We take the same route, and Ducky is used to it. She knows that when she gets to a certain point on the run, she’ll go off-leash and have ultimate freedom. She can sniff where she wants and say hi to other dogs. But I think she likes me, because every once in a while, she’ll come back after chasing down a squirrel, rustle up next to me, and then head out on another adventure. Ducky is excited by the outside world, but she also shows that she cares.

After Piedmont Park, we run back, and Ducky forgets to take off her harness—I have to do that for her. And I notice she’s thirsty, so I fill her bowl with water. I don’t do a lot of things for my co-op in Oakland. I don’t do the dishes. I forget my chores. But I do run Ducky.

Andrea, Ducky’s owner, doesn’t talk that much, but we bond over Ducky. I feel in some ways that we are co-parents for the three months I’ve been living here. Andrea is good at the logistical things but doesn’t have much time or energy to take Ducky for the exercise she needs. I’m always happy to take her on a run. To me, it’s no different—though it does involve carrying poop bags and steering clear of distractions that might be on the street. This part of Oakland is quite close to the hills, and I’ve taken Ducky up for hikes once in a while. It’s a part of the East Bay that people travel a great distance to come to.

You could say she was my first friend in this house. I’m extremely familiar with her body, her smells, the curls of her hair, and the way she rolls over and shows her belly. I know her footsteps, and she knows when I wake up—she makes whimpering noises outside my door, hoping to guilt-trip me into running her. Sometimes she sleeps in my bed, a little mattress on the floor not quite big enough for the two of us. And Ducky knows it and takes the initiative to spread out before I have the chance.

Ducky’s always on alert. She’s a watchdog, a protector—sometimes anxiously so. Sometimes she’ll growl at dogs going by, but I know it’s because she doesn’t want me to be attacked. She watches by the windows and barks furiously if anyone comes near the house.

She doesn’t know what that means. She responds to her name; she knows “sit,” she knows “hug,” she knows “quiet.” But the word she knows most well is “walk.” Ducky can’t wait for a walk. We can’t talk, Ducky and I, but the unspoken comfort makes the connection all the more beautiful. I tell Ducky I love her, and she licks my ear in return.