I never plan it that way, but the dogs explode out of the lobby like they have been holding their breath all night. The first few blocks are all about not getting dragged into traffic, saying hi to the super at the corner, and trying to remember who already used the bathroom. The air still feels a little cold on my face, and the city has that early morning sound, cars but not too many, someone dragging a crate over the sidewalk, music leaking from a shop that is just opening.
The sketchbook stays in my bag until we hit the first park. I clip the dogs to the bench, one on each side so they do not tangle each other, and they settle into their sniff and watch routine. That is the moment my brain kind of drops into a lower gear. I sit down, take a slow breath, and pull out this beat up notebook with bent corners and tiny teeth marks on the back cover. I always tell myself I will draw something big and important, but it usually ends up being small things. A kid kicking a rock. A man eating a bagel over the trash can. The way the light slides down the side of a parked car.
I like fast lines more than perfect ones. Slow careful drawings make me feel stiff, like I am taking a test I did not study for. When I work quick, my hand moves before I have time to judge it. I chase the curve of a tail, the tilt of a head, the twist in a runner's shoulder when they push off. Half of the time I look down and laugh because the sketch barely looks like the real thing. But there is some little stroke in there that feels honest, and that tiny honest piece is what I use later when I build a bigger drawing at home.
Sometimes I scroll through drawing ideas on my phone while the dogs sniff the same tree for what feels like the fifth time in a row. I save the ones that feel close to what I already see out here. A prompt about sketching moving crowds, or focusing on hands, or catching light on fur when the sun is low. I do not follow them exactly, but reading them nudges my eyes a little. It reminds me that the park is not just one flat scene. It is a hundred tiny stories that keep shifting every second.
By late morning the park fills in with people who know this is their time. The same woman walks three tiny dogs in matching sweaters. A group of teenagers cut across the grass even when it is wet. A man in a suit sits on the same bench and eats the same kind of yogurt, always with a spoon he pulls from his pocket instead of the lid. I try different sketch ideas on different days. One day I only draw shoes. Another day I only draw shadows. On days when my brain feels tired, I just pick one dog and follow the lines of their body as they scratch or roll or stretch into a sun patch.
Not every break feels inspiring, and I think that is important to say. There are days when the wind slices through the trees and my fingers feel too stiff to hold the pencil well. Some days the park smells more like trash than grass. On those days I still open the book, even if I only draw for five minutes. I guess the habit matters more than the result. When I flip back through old pages, the bad drawings mix in with the good ones, and together they feel like proof that I kept showing up.
One small trick that helps me is giving each page a loose theme, even if I decide it on the spot. It might be circles, or people sitting, or dogs who are mid jump. The theme keeps me from staring at the page too long. I am not trying to make a masterpiece. I am just trying to notice things I would normally rush past. When you walk dogs for a living, it is easy to let the route blur into one long sidewalk. Drawing breaks the path into scenes. The corner bodega. The guy who always feeds the pigeons. The crooked tree where everyone stops for shade in the summer.
The dogs do not care about any of this of course. They only care that we stopped, that they can drink water from the little travel bowl, and that I occasionally reach down with my free hand and scratch behind their ears. Sometimes a dog will rest its chin on my knee while I sketch. I can feel the weight of their head and the heat of their breath, and I draw one handed because I do not want to move them. Those are the drawings that somehow feel the warmest to me when I look at them later, even if the lines are wobbly and the proportions are off.
Afternoons are louder. By then, the playground is full, and someone is always playing music too loud from a portable speaker. I use that loud energy as a kind of timer. I tell myself I will stay on the bench for the length of two or three songs, no matter how messy the page looks. Sketching in noise has taught me to let go of control a little. You cannot plan everything when a dog suddenly spots a squirrel, or a kid kicks a ball that rolls right over your shoe. You just pause, laugh, and pick up the line again wherever you left off.
By the time I head back to the last building of the day, my pockets are full of crumpled poop bags and my notebook is full of half finished scenes. None of it looks perfect, but walking home I can feel that soft buzz in my chest that tells me I was paying attention. It means the day was not just work. It was also looking and turning small moving moments into marks on a page.
Little Moments I Like To Draw
I usually grab a cheap coffee before the afternoon loop begins. The cup warms my hand as I walk down the block, and the lid never sits right so it dribbles a little on my fingers. I wipe it on my jeans and keep going. The dogs I pick up after lunch tend to be a bit older. Slow walkers. They like to sniff the base of every tree like they are reading a newspaper. That slow pace is when my eyes start catching things I missed in the morning. A worker leaning on a shovel and staring at the clouds. A woman talking into a headset while dragging two rolling carts behind her. A bike messenger weaving through traffic like he knows every bump in the road.
I tell myself to watch for shapes instead of whole scenes. A circle. A triangle. A long line that cuts across another. If I focus on shapes first, the rest builds itself. I do not know why that works, but it makes the walk feel less like a rush and more like a slow movie I get to redraw in pieces. Sometimes I stop at a crosswalk and draw right there on the corner. It makes the cars behind me angry, but I only need two seconds. A fast scribble. A little curve. I slip the notebook back into my pocket right as the light turns.
There is a bench near the fountain in Riverside Park that I claim even though no one knows it is mine. It is a little crooked and one board pops up if you sit on the far right side. I sit in the middle. The fountain makes this steady sound that covers up everything else. Dogs bark, kids shout, bikes zip past, but the water noise stays the same. I like to draw when there is one anchor sound like that. It helps me breathe slower. I think my drawings look calmer on that bench, even if the dogs are trying to wrap their leashes around my ankles.
One day I watched an older man feed a squirrel out of his hand. I tried to draw their hands and paws together, but the moment went by too fast. Still, something about it stuck with me. A few days later, at home, I used that tiny half sketch to build a whole picture. The man was not perfect. The squirrel looked like a potato with legs. But the moment felt real, and that mattered more to me than getting the anatomy right. That is what I like about sketch practice. It lets me take something quick and turn it into something that feels fuller later.
The more I walk dogs, the more I notice patterns. People who move with heavy steps. Dogs who walk like they are carrying a secret. Kids who swing their arms in big arcs when they run. These little things help me pick what to draw. I never run out of subjects because the city never repeats itself the same way. Even the same people do not move the same from day to day. I do not know if that makes sense, but it makes picking what to sketch feel fun instead of stressful.
Sometimes strangers come up and ask to look at my notebook. I always hesitate because I never know what page they will flip to. Some pages look like a bunch of noodles. Others might show a half drawn face or a dog whose legs are way too long. But people usually smile and say something kind. A few even tell me they used to draw when they were younger, or they doodle during meetings, or they wish they had more time for art. I tell them the same thing I tell myself. You only need a few minutes. Two minutes on a bench. One minute at a crosswalk. Even little scraps add up.
The dogs get to know my routine too. When I sit down, they settle. When they see me pull the notebook out, they flop onto their sides like it is nap time. One small terrier likes to rest its paw right on my shoe and stare at me like it expects me to draw something important. I usually draw its ear or its tail or the curve of its back. I show the sketch to the dog even though I know dogs do not understand drawings. Still, I swear that terrier squints at the page like it is evaluating my lines.
Around three in the afternoon the light gets warmer, and I get this extra burst of energy. I do not know why. Maybe it is the second coffee kicking in. Maybe it is the way the sun hits the tops of the buildings. The shadows stretch across the sidewalk in long stripes, and I like to draw those stripes because they make everything look taller. Sometimes I try to capture the way a dog's shadow bends when it moves. It is tough because shadows shift so fast. But even if the drawing comes out strange, it feels worth trying.
There is one corner where a food truck parks every day. The guy inside knows me because I always walk past with at least two dogs tugging me in different directions. He calls me Dog Pencil Guy. I guess that is fair. When business is slow, he steps out and talks to me while I sketch. He told me once that he used to draw comics. I could not picture it at first because he has this deep voice and always looks tired. But he showed me a photo of one he drew years ago. A superhero with a giant coat and a tiny mask. He said he stopped drawing because he got too busy. I told him he could draw again, even if it was just a few minutes a day. He shrugged. I do not know if he will, but I hope he does.
On days when it rains, everything changes. The park turns gray and soggy. The dogs shake water all over me. My notebook paper curls at the edges and my pencil smears more easily. But rainy days have their own kind of rhythm. People rush instead of stroll. Colors deepen. Reflections spread everywhere. I like drawing puddles because they stretch and wobble and do not care about neat lines. I sit under a tree or a small awning and sketch whoever passes. Their umbrellas tilt in different ways. Their steps splash or slide. Rain makes the world move differently, and that gives me new things to study.
I used to think I had to wait for the perfect moment to draw. Good lighting. A calm scene. Enough time. But the job taught me something different. Perfect moments are rare. Real moments are everywhere. A dog tugging hard toward another dog. A jogger wiping sweat with the back of their hand. A kid spinning in circles for no reason. These moments might only last a second, but my pencil grabs whatever piece it can. Later, when I flip through the pages, I can almost feel those moments again. It makes the whole day feel fuller than it looked at the time.
Even when I get home at night, tired and smelling like wet fur and city dust, I sometimes pull out the notebook again. I look through the pages covered with the day. Some drawings feel alive. Some feel awkward. Some look like they were drawn by someone who forgot how to hold a pencil. But all of them remind me that I spent the day watching. Paying attention. Trying. And maybe that is the real reason I draw during breaks. It keeps me awake to the world instead of drifting through the hours.
I usually grab a cheap coffee before the afternoon loop begins. The cup warms my hand as I walk down the block, and the lid never sits right so it dribbles a little on my fingers. I wipe it on my jeans and keep going. The dogs I pick up after lunch tend to be a bit older. Slow walkers. They like to sniff the base of every tree like they are reading a newspaper. That slow pace is when my eyes start catching things I missed in the morning. A worker leaning on a shovel and staring at the clouds. A woman talking into a headset while dragging two rolling carts behind her. A bike messenger weaving through traffic like he knows every bump in the road.
I tell myself to watch for shapes instead of whole scenes. A circle. A triangle. A long line that cuts across another. If I focus on shapes first, the rest builds itself. I do not know why that works, but it makes the walk feel less like a rush and more like a slow movie I get to redraw in pieces. Sometimes I stop at a crosswalk and draw right there on the corner. It makes the cars behind me angry, but I only need two seconds. A fast scribble. A little curve. I slip the notebook back into my pocket right as the light turns.
There is a bench near the fountain in Riverside Park that I claim even though no one knows it is mine. It is a little crooked and one board pops up if you sit on the far right side. I sit in the middle. The fountain makes this steady sound that covers up everything else. Dogs bark, kids shout, bikes zip past, but the water noise stays the same. I like to draw when there is one anchor sound like that. It helps me breathe slower. I think my drawings look calmer on that bench, even if the dogs are trying to wrap their leashes around my ankles.
One day I watched an older man feed a squirrel out of his hand. I tried to draw their hands and paws together, but the moment went by too fast. Still, something about it stuck with me. A few days later, at home, I used that tiny half sketch to build a whole picture. The man was not perfect. The squirrel looked like a potato with legs. But the moment felt real, and that mattered more to me than getting the anatomy right. That is what I like about sketch practice. It lets me take something quick and turn it into something that feels fuller later.
The more I walk dogs, the more I notice patterns. People who move with heavy steps. Dogs who walk like they are carrying a secret. Kids who swing their arms in big arcs when they run. These little things help me pick what to draw. I never run out of subjects because the city never repeats itself the same way. Even the same people do not move the same from day to day. I do not know if that makes sense, but it makes picking what to sketch feel fun instead of stressful.
Sometimes strangers come up and ask to look at my notebook. I always hesitate because I never know what page they will flip to. Some pages look like a bunch of noodles. Others might show a half drawn face or a dog whose legs are way too long. But people usually smile and say something kind. A few even tell me they used to draw when they were younger, or they doodle during meetings, or they wish they had more time for art. I tell them the same thing I tell myself. You only need a few minutes. Two minutes on a bench. One minute at a crosswalk. Even little scraps add up.
The dogs get to know my routine too. When I sit down, they settle. When they see me pull the notebook out, they flop onto their sides like it is nap time. One small terrier likes to rest its paw right on my shoe and stare at me like it expects me to draw something important. I usually draw its ear or its tail or the curve of its back. I show the sketch to the dog even though I know dogs do not understand drawings. Still, I swear that terrier squints at the page like it is evaluating my lines.
Around three in the afternoon the light gets warmer, and I get this extra burst of energy. I do not know why. Maybe it is the second coffee kicking in. Maybe it is the way the sun hits the tops of the buildings. The shadows stretch across the sidewalk in long stripes, and I like to draw those stripes because they make everything look taller. Sometimes I try to capture the way a dog's shadow bends when it moves. It is tough because shadows shift so fast. But even if the drawing comes out strange, it feels worth trying.
There is one corner where a food truck parks every day. The guy inside knows me because I always walk past with at least two dogs tugging me in different directions. He calls me Dog Pencil Guy. I guess that is fair. When business is slow, he steps out and talks to me while I sketch. He told me once that he used to draw comics. I could not picture it at first because he has this deep voice and always looks tired. But he showed me a photo of one he drew years ago. A superhero with a giant coat and a tiny mask. He said he stopped drawing because he got too busy and ran out of drawing ideas. I told him he could draw again, even if it was just a few minutes a day. He shrugged. I do not know if he will, but I hope he does.
On days when it rains, everything changes. The park turns gray and soggy. The dogs shake water all over me. My notebook paper curls at the edges and my pencil smears more easily. But rainy days have their own kind of rhythm. People rush instead of stroll. Colors deepen. Reflections spread everywhere. I like drawing puddles because they stretch and wobble and do not care about neat lines. I sit under a tree or a small awning and sketch whoever passes. Their umbrellas tilt in different ways. Their steps splash or slide. Rain makes the world move differently, and that gives me new things to study.
I used to think I had to wait for the perfect moment to draw. Good lighting. A calm scene. Enough time. But the job taught me something different. Perfect moments are rare. Real moments are everywhere. A dog tugging hard toward another dog. A jogger wiping sweat with the back of their hand. A kid spinning in circles for no reason. These moments might only last a second, but my pencil grabs whatever piece it can. Later, when I flip through the pages, I can almost feel those moments again. It makes the whole day feel fuller than it looked at the time.
Even when I get home at night, tired and smelling like wet fur and city dust, I sometimes pull out the notebook again. I look through the pages covered with the day. Some drawings feel alive. Some feel awkward. Some look like they were drawn by someone who forgot how to hold a pencil. But all of them remind me that I spent the day watching. Paying attention. Trying. And maybe that is the real reason I draw during breaks. It keeps me awake to the world instead of drifting through the hours.
There is a small hill near the north end of the park where I sometimes let the dogs wander at the end of their leashes while I stand at the top and look down at everything happening at once. From up there, the paths look like thin lines crisscrossing each other, and people glide along them like little moving dots. I've found so many drawing ideas at this sport. I never realized how much movement fills a park until I started walking dogs for a living. When I stand on that hill, I feel like I am watching the whole day breathe. I try to sketch from up there even if the wind pushes the page around. Those quick sketching moments feel loose and open, like I am drawing the rhythm of the place instead of the details.
Sometimes I follow the same couple streets from building to building, and over time the buildings start to feel like old friends. The deli with the faded red sign. The apartment entrance that always smells a little like laundry detergent. The stoop where someone leaves free books in a milk crate. I know which blocks get the best morning light and which ones stay dim. I know the tree roots that lift the sidewalk just enough to trip you if you are not looking. These small things end up in my drawings in ways I do not fully plan. The angle of a curb. The shape of a doorway. The slant of the afternoon shadow from the fire escape.
Every once in a while, I stop at a playground even when I do not have kids with me. The dogs love the noise. They wag their tails at the kids even though they cannot enter the play area. I sit outside the fence and draw through the gaps. Swings are my favorite because they move in such big arcs. Kids lean back with their hair flying, and the motion makes such a strong shape in the air. It is hard to get it right, so I just go fast and hope my pencil catches a piece of it. Sometimes it does. Most of the time it does not. But even missing it feels exciting.
I used to worry that people would be bothered by someone sketching them. But the truth is no one really notices. Everyone is wrapped up in their own world. Phones, conversations, routines. I draw as quietly as I can. Quick lines. Short looks. Then back to the page. If someone does notice, I smile and show them the sketch. Most people laugh because the drawing is usually half finished or looks like a weird version of them. No one has ever gotten mad. A few even asked me to draw their dog, which I always try, even if the dog will not sit still for more than two seconds.
There is a stretch of sidewalk near 89th Street that I dread because it gets crowded around 3:30 when schools let out. Kids pour through the crosswalk in huge groups, and dogs get excited, barking and pulling toward the commotion. I used to rush through it, but now I pause sometimes and let the crowd pass while I sketch the shapes of backpacks and bouncing steps. Kids have this loose way of moving that adults lose. Their arms swing wide. Their knees bend deep. Their heads tilt back when they laugh. Drawing them always wakes up something inside me. It makes me feel lighter.
On really good days, the sky turns this perfect soft blue that makes everything on the ground look sharper. Colors pop more. Shadows look cooler. Dogs seem to walk with more bounce. On those days I fill pages fast. I draw dogs mid step, people leaning on fences, bikes rolling past in a blur. There is something about a good sky that makes me want to draw until my pencil runs dull. I keep a tiny sharpener in my pocket and twist the pencil over a trash can whenever it gets too soft. The sound of the shavings scraping feels comforting in a strange way, like resetting my tools resets my mind.
One memory sticks with me. It was a day when the wind kept pushing the clouds in long stretched lines, and I could feel the air shift every few minutes. I sat on a bench with two dogs sleeping by my feet. A man walked by holding a bright yellow kite, and the color was so bold against the gray sky that I grabbed my notebook without thinking. He ran across the grass trying to get the kite up, but it kept dipping. I sketched the shape of it pulling sideways. Then it suddenly rose, climbing fast until it was a small speck. I caught just one clean line of it before it tilted out of view again. When I look at that drawing now, it feels like the wind is still in it.
I like moments like that, when something unexpected slides into the day. A street musician setting up near the path. A dog walker with six tiny dogs moving like a fluffy parade. A delivery worker carrying a giant stack of boxes that look like they might topple any second. These things keep the day from blending together. I draw them not because they are perfect scenes, but because they stir something in me when they happen. I think that is what art is most of the time. Paying attention to the small things that most people rush past.
Sometimes I try to draw the same thing more than once. A tree. A bench. A dog drinking water from a bowl. When I draw the same subject several times, I notice new angles I missed before. A branch I ignored. A crease in the bench. The way a dog's ears tilt when it is thinking. Drawing the same thing again makes me feel calmer, like repeating a song you love just to hear the familiar parts. It also shows me how much changes even when I think nothing changed around me. Light shifts. Colors deepen. The dogs move. People pass by that were not there before.
When I walk home after my last drop off, I sometimes replay the day in my head. Not every detail, but the tiny flashes that stayed with me. The older dog that sighed when I scratched its neck. The little kid who waved at every dog like they were famous. The runner who tied their shoe right in front of me while I tried not to step on the dog sniffing their ankle. These memories settle in slowly. When I draw at night, they come back without me trying. It is funny how the body remembers the shape of things even when the mind forgets.
I think one reason drawing feels so tied to dog walking is because both jobs ask you to notice movement. Dogs communicate through the way they shift their weight, the height of their tail, the direction of their ears. People do the same thing in their own way. A slouch says something. A quick step says something else. When you spend hours a day watching bodies move, it feels natural to want to capture some of that on paper. Not perfectly. Just honestly. A gesture. A curve. A little hint of what was happening in that exact second.
Even when I get home and throw my shoes off, I still feel like I am moving a little. My legs hum with the memory of the miles. My hands feel warm from holding leashes and my notebook. Sometimes I sit at my desk and flip through the pages from the day, laughing at how messy they look. But the messiness makes me like them more. There is life in the mess. You can feel the rush of the sidewalk or the calm of the bench or the stretch of a dog waking up from a nap. All those tiny things settle into the lines without me planning it.
There is a quiet corner of the park near a line of old stone steps where I like to stop when the afternoon gets heavy. The steps are cracked and a little uneven, and plants grow between them like they are trying to push the stones apart. I sit halfway down where the sun hits just right, and the dogs usually curl up behind me in the shade. From that angle, I can see the tops of people’s heads as they walk by, which makes the world feel softer somehow. I draw the curves of the steps, the shadows between them, and the way shoes tap across the stone. These small sketch moments are so ordinary that they slip into my day without effort, but they stay with me long after the dogs get picked up.
One day, a little boy sat down beside me without saying anything. He had a toy dinosaur in his hand, the kind with a tail that always falls off. He leaned over and watched me draw. I felt him breathing on my arm a little, like he was trying to see every line I made. After a minute, he said he thought my drawing looked like a dragon, not a dog. I looked down, and honestly, he was right. The back legs looked too chunky. I laughed and told him maybe the dog had a secret life I did not know about. He sat there for another minute, nodded very seriously, then got up and ran off. I still think about that.
I run into a lot of the same people during my routes, even if I do not know their names. There is a woman who does long stretches by the drinking fountain. She bends so far forward her palms touch the ground. I tried to draw her once, but she moved to a new stretch as soon as I started. Another woman paints watercolors in the park. She sits on the grass with a tiny set of paints that look like they came from a travel kit. I always want to ask her what she is painting, but I do not want to interrupt her. Sometimes I sketch her instead, trying to capture the way she tilts her head when she looks at the paper.
The dogs each have their own personality too. Some of them walk like they have somewhere important to be. Others wander like every smell is a mystery. There is a huge golden retriever named Max who stops in front of every puddle and waits for me to draw him. I never trained him to do that. He just started one day. I took it as a sign and now I draw his reflection in the water whenever he gives me the chance. His ears droop in the same way every time. Even though he moves slowly, his reflection changes with every step.
I like drawing reflections because they stretch the truth a little. A puddle makes a dog look longer or upside down or wavy, and I get to choose which part to keep on the page. Sometimes people see my puddle drawings and think I messed up the shape, but I like the oddness. Real life is not tidy anyway. Puddles remind me that drawings do not have to be either.
There is a stretch of the path near the dog run where the wind always moves in one direction. I do not know why. Maybe it has to do with the way the buildings trap the air. When the wind picks up, hair, leaves, plastic bags, and even bits of napkin all blow the same way. I stand there and try to draw the motion. Not the leaves themselves, but the idea of them. I go fast so the dogs do not get bored. My pencil runs over the paper in soft zigzags, trying to show the pull of the wind.
Some days are harder. Not because of the drawings, but because the city feels too loud or the dogs are restless or my legs ache for no clear reason. On those days, sketching is the only thing that slows me down. I sit on a bench even if I did not plan to. I look at the page and let my hand move without thinking. The dogs watch the world for me while I catch my breath. Even a five minute break can shift the whole day. Something about turning a moment into a line makes everything around me feel less rushed.
I remember one afternoon when the city felt heavier than usual. Maybe it was the humidity. Maybe it was the traffic jam that had cars honking nonstop. I sat on a bench that faced the river, hoping the breeze would help. The dogs panted beside me, their tongues hanging long, tired from the heat. A runner stopped near us and leaned over with her hands on her knees, catching her breath. She looked up and asked if I was drawing her. I said I had been trying to draw the water but kept getting distracted. She laughed, wiped sweat from her forehead, and said the water never looks like you expect anyway. She stretched and ran off, and I ended up drawing her instead of the river.
People passing through the park often carry things that give them away. A man with a canvas bag full of groceries. A nurse in scrubs walking fast to catch a bus. A teenager with headphones bobbing his head to music only he can hear. I like picking one detail from each person and drawing only that. A heel of a shoe. A sleeve with a ripped thread. A backpack strap pulled too tight. These details tell little stories by themselves. They help me understand the person even if I never speak to them.
I find myself sketching hands a lot. Hands do so much talking without words. Some hold phones tightly, like they are trying to keep the world steady. Some hang loose at the side, relaxed and open. Dogs nudge hands when they want attention. Children swing them when they are excited. I draw hands when my mind feels too fast. The slow curves help me breathe easier, like tracing the outline of a calm thought. Hands are tricky though. If you get one angle wrong, the whole drawing looks off. But when it works, even a loose sketch can show a whole mood.
On warm days, the dogs move slower. They sniff for longer, drink more water, and pick shady spots whenever they can. I follow their lead. I sit more. I sketch more. Sometimes a breeze comes through the trees and carries dust across the path. It sparkles in the sun like tiny floating dots. I try to draw it, but dust is almost impossible to capture. It moves too fast and disappears too soon. Still, trying to draw something impossible makes the moment stick in my mind longer.
There is a part of the park where the trees curve overhead, forming a tunnel of branches. In the fall, the leaves shift from green to gold to deep red, and they fall in slow waves. Walking through that tunnel feels like walking inside a painting. I stop there often and draw the way the branches bend. The dogs paw at the leaves while I sketch the shapes above us. That part of the park feels different from the rest, like a quiet room built by nature in the middle of the city.
One thing I never expected when I started walking dogs was how much I would end up noticing shoes. I do not mean fancy shoes or anything like that. I mean the ordinary ones. Worn sneakers, boots with scuffed toes, sandals that slap the pavement, and those slip-ons that look comfortable enough to forget you are wearing them. When I am waiting for a dog to finish sniffing a tree or deciding which direction it wants to go, I sometimes stand still and watch the stream of shoes passing by. Each pair has a rhythm. Some drag a little. Some bounce. Some hit the ground like small hammers. Drawing shoes might sound boring, but they tell more of a story than you would think. A quick sketch of a heel or a shoelace loop can show you how fast someone was walking or how tired they felt.
There is an older man who walks through the park at the same time every day. He wears a bright blue jacket no matter the season. He walks slowly, but he always looks around like he is trying to take in every corner of the park. The dogs notice him too. They wag as he walks past. One day he stopped and asked me if I was drawing the dogs or the people. I told him I try to draw whatever jumps out at me first. He nodded and said, It is good to follow whatever the day gives you. Then he kept walking. I wrote that line at the bottom of my page so I would not forget it.
There are days when the dogs seem more tired than I am. They plop down on the grass and refuse to stand back up until they have had enough time to rest. On those days, I sit beside them and sketch them exactly as they are. A dog stretched long across the grass. A dog rolling onto its back with its paws in the air. A dog resting its head on a patch of warm dirt. These drawings are soft and simple, but they calm me. They remind me that not every moment has to be fast or big or full of motion. Sometimes slowing down is the best part of the day.
There is a food cart near the south end of the park that always smells like grilled onions. The smell sticks to the air even from far away. Sometimes, when the dogs and I stop near it, I draw the people waiting in line. They tap their feet or shuffle forward or glance at their watches. It is funny how many different postures people adopt when they are hungry. One man hunches forward like the food is calling him. A woman holds her bag close, like the smell might swallow it. A kid bounces in place. These small details make the scene feel alive, even in a simple sketch.
Windy days are some of my favorite days to draw. The way hair lifts, clothes flap, and leaves spin in circles gives the whole park a lively, unpredictable feeling. The dogs get extra excited too. Their ears fly back and their tails wave like flags. On windy days, I draw faster because the world moves faster. I chase the motion of people leaning into the wind, dogs sniffing the air, and papers sliding across the sidewalk. My lines get wilder and looser on those days, but I kind of love the mess they make.
Once, I watched a girl dance on the grass with headphones on. She wore a huge sweater that hung past her hands, and she spun in slow circles with her eyes closed. The dogs stared at her like she was the most interesting thing they had seen all day. I tried to capture the sway of her sweater and the tilt of her head. She never noticed me or the dogs. She just kept dancing, completely in her own world. I think that is why the moment felt so vivid. I like drawing people who do not realize they are being watched. Their movements look more natural.
The city has this way of surprising me with sudden pockets of quiet. A dead end alley where no one walks. A courtyard between buildings where leaves collect. A tiny stretch of sidewalk behind a bus stop that stays empty even at busy times. Sometimes I wander into these little pockets during a walk and sit for a second to breathe. The dogs look at me like they are wondering why we stopped, but they sit too. In these quiet spots I often draw shadows or patterns on the ground. Loose drawing moments, I guess. The shapes of railings. The edges of mailboxes. The way sunlight slides through fences. Nothing dramatic, but it helps me feel grounded.
Not every part of the job is charming. There are days when the dogs bark nonstop at pigeons, or a stroller blocks the narrow sidewalk, or someone yells because they are in a hurry. Those moments remind me that the city is messy, but drawing helps me hold onto the good parts. Sometimes I will sketch something right after a stressful moment just to reset my mind. Even a tiny scribble can pull me back into myself.
One of my favorite views in the park is the long stretch of path that curves around the water. When the dogs and I walk there, the breeze comes off the river and carries this cool smell that feels like it washes the day clean. I like drawing the reflections on the water, even when the surface is rough. People walking by get stretched and wobbly. Trees bend into shapes they do not actually have. Even the sky looks different when you draw it upside down. Sometimes the dogs sit next to me and watch the water too, like they are trying to understand what I see in it.
There is a bench near the basketball courts where I stop on days when the games get loud. The thump of the ball hitting the ground and the echo of players calling to each other fill the air. The rhythm makes my hand move in a different way. I draw faster, with sharper lines. I sketch the shape of someone jumping for a shot or the bend in a player's knees right before they leap. The dogs always perk up when the ball bounces hard. I have to keep a firm grip on the leashes so they do not dash into the court thinking it is a game.
Once, a man sat beside me and said he used to walk dogs too. He told me stories about carrying five leashes in one hand and getting tangled more times than he could count. He said sketching during walks sounded like a good idea, like it kept the day interesting. I told him it did more than that. It kept me from rushing through everything. He nodded like he understood exactly what I meant. When he stood up to leave, one of the dogs tried to follow him. He laughed and said he must still have the smell of treats in his pocket.
Some days, the park feels like a stage. People jogging, stretching, reading, eating, practicing music, tossing frisbees. Everyone has something they are doing, and the dogs and I just move through it like background characters. I like drawing people who are caught up in what they are doing. There is something honest about someone frowning at their crossword puzzle or tugging at their sock or shaking a pebble out of their shoe. These gestures feel small, but when I draw them, they become the center of the page.
At the end of the day, when the sunlight starts to fade and the park fills with long shadows, I often sit for one last sketch before going home. The dogs relax at my feet, tired from all the walking and sniffing. The air cools, and everything feels slower. I draw whatever is closest to me. A branch. A bench leg. The corner of a building. Sometimes I draw the dogs as they rest, their breathing soft and even. It is the quietest part of the day, and it feels like the perfect time to capture something simple before heading home.
There is this dog named Pepper, a small black and white mix with a tail that curls so tight it almost touches her back. Pepper walks like she owns every sidewalk we step on. She trots ahead with this bouncy confidence that makes people smile when they pass her. She is also one of the worst dogs to draw because she never stays still longer than a blink. Still, she is the one I try to sketch the most. Something about the way she moves feels like pure joy. I follow her lines with quick strokes, even though she changes direction faster than my pencil can keep up. When I look at those pages later, they look like scribbles, but I can still feel Pepper's energy buzzing through them.
There is a narrow path near the north playground where the sunlight hits at a perfect angle in late afternoon. It makes the ground look warm and golden. I stop there almost every day even if I do not mean to. The dogs sniff the same two trees, and I draw the same patch of ground. I know that sounds silly, but the light makes everything look different depending on the day. Sometimes the shadows are long and soft. Sometimes they break into tiny pieces. I draw those pieces even when I cannot explain why. It just feels good to pay attention to something simple.
One afternoon I saw a teenager sitting cross legged under a big oak tree playing a small guitar. She did not have a case or anything. Just the guitar and a few sheets of paper beside her. She kept stopping midsong to write something down, then she would play again. The dogs went quiet when she played, which surprised me. Even the noisiest dogs seemed to listen. I drew the tilt of her head and the angle of her elbow as she strummed. I did not draw her face because I did not want to make it too personal. But the way she held the guitar said enough. She looked like someone building a new song right there in the middle of the park.
Sometimes the best drawings come from moments I would not expect. There was a day when construction workers blocked off part of the path with orange cones and tape. People grumbled and tried to squeeze around the edges. The dogs did not care at all. They just sniffed the cones like they were the most interesting things on earth. I sat on a bench and drew the cones, the tape, the boots of the workers, and the annoyed faces of people weaving through the mess. None of it looked pretty, but it felt real. Those kinds of scenes remind me that art does not need perfect beauty to matter.
The city has its own soundtrack that follows me during every walk. Distant sirens, car horns, kids shouting, dogs barking, the low rumble of buses passing by. Sometimes someone plays music from a portable speaker, and the beat bounces across the grass. These sounds fill the air and shape my sketches. On loud days, my lines get sharper. On quiet days, they get softer. I never noticed how much sound affects drawing until I started sketching outside every day.
There is a small garden area fenced off near the west side of the park. Volunteers plant and care for it, and you can tell they love it. The flowers change every season. Purple in spring. Gold in summer. Deep red in fall. I stand outside the fence and draw the way people lean in to smell the flowers. Some bend low. Some stretch their necks like they are trying to get closer without stepping inside. The dogs sniff the fence while I sketch. It feels peaceful there. Even five minutes in that garden corner gives the day a softness I did not realize it needed.
Once, I caught a moment between two strangers that felt like a tiny movie scene. A man dropped his glove without noticing, and a woman jogging behind him picked it up and called out to him. He turned, surprised, and she handed it back with a smile before continuing her run. The whole thing lasted maybe six seconds. But I pulled out my notebook right away and drew the angle of her arm reaching out and the way his shoulders lifted when he realized what happened. Even though the sketch was quick, it felt warm. I love when the city shows little kindnesses like that.
There is another dog I walk, a huge shepherd named Hugo, who loves to sit and stare at the river like he is thinking about life. He plops down without warning and refuses to budge until he is satisfied. While he sits, I draw his silhouette. Big shoulders, thick fur, ears pointed high. His stillness makes him easier to draw than most dogs, but every time I finish a sketch of him, he stands up the second I close the notebook, almost like he was waiting for me to finish.
Some days, people bring picnic blankets and spread them out across the grass. I like drawing the way fabric folds when someone sits down or shifts their weight. The creases zigzag in unexpected ways. I draw coolers, cups, fruit containers, backpacks, and the relaxed way people sit when they have nowhere else to be for a while. The dogs usually walk right up to the edge of a blanket and sniff the air hopefully. I tug them back, but people laugh instead of minding. Something about picnics brings out the nicest moods in everyone.
There is a long walkway lined with metal railings where skateboarders practice. They glide, jump, turn, and sometimes crash. The dogs watch with wide eyes, unsure whether they should bark or run. I like drawing skateboarders because their movement feels like one smooth shape stretching across the path. Even when they fall, the motion has a story to it. I draw the curve of their bent knees, the shift of weight, the angle of the board. It is hard to capture, but trying makes me feel more alert.
I think my favorite time to draw is right before sunset. The light gets soft and warm, and it makes people look calmer, even when they are rushing home. The dogs slow down too, almost like they can feel the day closing. We walk the same paths, but everything looks different. Trees glow around the edges. The sky shifts into soft streaks of orange and pink. I sit on a bench and draw silhouettes. Branches. People walking by. A dog tugging against a leash. These drawings end up looking simpler than my daytime sketches, but they hold a quiet feeling that I really like.
Some evenings I stop near the water and watch the boats move across the river. The sound of the waves slapping against the rocks mixes with the hum of the engines. It feels steady and calming. The dogs sniff the tall grass while I sketch the shapes of the boats. I try to capture the way they cut through the water and leave a trail behind them. The lines are smoother than most of my other sketches. Drawing boats slows me down and helps me end the day with a gentler rhythm.
After the last route, when the sky turns darker and the lamps in the park flick on, I walk through the quieter paths and find a bench where I can sit for a minute before heading home. My body feels tired, and the dogs are sleepy by then. I flip through my notebook and look at the pages full of scribbles, lines, odd shapes, and strange angles. Some sketches make me smile. Some make me shake my head. But together, they feel like my day captured in tiny pieces. Every sketch is a moment I would have missed if I had not stopped.
That is what I love most about drawing during dog walking. It opens the day up. It turns ordinary paths into places worth paying attention to. And it makes me feel like I am part of the city instead of just passing through it. Every time I put pencil to paper, even for a few seconds, I learn something new about the world around me. And that feeling, more than anything else, keeps me pulling the notebook out again and again, no matter how tired I am.
When I reach my apartment door at the end of the day, I feel like I am carrying the whole city home with me. The noise, the motion, the quiet corners, the faces, the dogs, the trees, the river, the benches, the shadows. They all sit inside those pages in a way that only makes sense to me. I hang my keys, kick off my shoes, and place my sketchbook on the small table by the door. Sometimes I open it again before bed just to see the day one more time. Each page reminds me that paying attention is its own kind of art, and that drawing, even in small bits, makes the world feel a little more alive.
There is a certain tree near the middle of the park that I call the listening tree, even though no one else knows I call it that. Its branches reach out like arms, and the trunk leans a little to the left as if it is bending closer to the path just to hear what people are saying. I sit under it whenever I am feeling worn out, and the dogs seem to settle faster there too. Maybe the shade helps. Maybe it is the way the wind sounds in those branches. I draw the bark lines and the twist of the trunk. I try to catch the shape of the leaves when they rustle like soft whispers. Drawing that tree has become one of my little sketch habits, something I return to again and again.
One day, a woman sitting on the grass nearby asked if she could look at what I was working on. I hesitated at first because I never know what people will think when they see my raw sketches. She said she used to draw trees when she was younger. She said she liked the way I ignored the perfect shape and focused on the parts that leaned or twisted. She told me trees look better when you draw them like they are actually living something, not just standing still. I wrote that down too. It felt true in a way I had not thought about before.
I think a lot about how drawing has changed the way I see the city. Before I started sketching during walks, I noticed things in a quick, practical way. I saw where traffic was heavy, which sidewalks were cracked, who walked fast and who walked slow. But now I notice the way a shadow curves around a trash can. I notice how the light changes the color of a dog’s fur. I notice the way someone’s face softens when they bend down to pet a dog. Sketching shifts my eyes into a different mode, and even when I am not drawing, I feel like I am carrying that softer way of seeing with me.
Sometimes I take the long way between buildings just to pass by places that feel good to draw. A yellow mailbox on a quiet corner. A metal grate with a crooked pattern. A fire hydrant that leans like it is tired. I know the city is full of huge monuments and famous landmarks, but it is the small things that make me want to stop and sketch. The little ordinary pieces that most people pass without thinking. For me, those things feel like anchors in the day.
There was one early morning when the fog was so thick that the park looked like someone had erased half the world. The dogs and I walked slowly through the gray air, and everything around us felt soft and distant. I pulled out my notebook and drew the shapes of things fading into the fog. A lamppost. A bench. The faint outline of a jogger. The dogs looked like moving shadows. I sketched them as quick silhouettes. It was one of the few times the world felt quiet enough that even my pencil sounded loud.
I meet a lot of regulars as I move through the park at different hours. The man who feeds birds every morning near the fountain. The woman who runs laps with her small dog tied to her waist. The older couple who walks slowly, holding hands while their dog trots ahead like a tiny scout. I sometimes draw these people from memory later. Not because I want portraits of them, but because I want to remember the feeling of seeing them again and again, like familiar notes in a long song.
There is a bridge in the park where people stop to take photos of the water. Most only stay for a minute, but every time the dogs and I pass it, I glance over the railing. The water looks different every day. Some days it is glassy and still. Other days it ripples in a pattern that looks like broken lines. I sketch those ripples as the dogs watch ducks swim toward the far side. Sometimes a duck flaps its wings so suddenly that the water splashes up, and I try to catch that shape before it disappears. I never quite get it right, but trying feels good.
Some of my favorite sketches come from things the dogs do without thinking. A stretch that arches their back perfectly. A shake that sends water flying everywhere. A big yawn that scrunches their whole face. I draw dogs more than anything else, mostly because they are always with me. But drawing them has taught me something about motion. A dog does not pose. It does not try to look interesting. It just moves the way it feels. There is honesty in that. My pencil tries to follow it.
People assume that walking dogs all day is the same routine repeating itself, but it never feels that way to me. Even when I walk the same dogs along the same routes, the city gives me new sketch moments every day. A man carrying too many takeout bags. A group of kids learning to ride scooters. A jogger who always waves at the dogs. A construction worker singing to himself. A cyclist balancing a long bag of groceries on his shoulder. These flashes drift through my drawings whether I plan for them or not.
There is a small overpass where the trains rumble overhead. When a train passes, the whole structure vibrates a little, and the dogs look up, startled at first, then curious. I sit there sometimes and draw the lines of the metal beams. The vibration makes my hand shake just enough to give the sketch a rough edge. I sort of like that. It feels like the drawing carries the sound inside it.
Sometimes, when the dogs get restless, I do quick timed drawings. I tell myself I have ten seconds to draw whatever is in front of me. Then I flip the page and try again. Ten seconds for a tree. Ten seconds for a person tying their shoe. Ten seconds for a running dog. These little challenges keep my brain awake and my hand moving. Most of the sketches look like wild scribbles, but every once in a while, one line lands perfectly, and it feels like catching lightning in a bottle.
I never go anywhere without at least two pencils because I lose them constantly. One rolls under a bench. One falls out of my pocket. One gets stolen by a mischievous dog who thinks it is a toy. I have learned not to buy fancy pencils. Cheap ones work just fine, and I do not feel bad when they disappear. Sometimes I sharpen a pencil down until it is too small to hold, and I keep the tiny stub in a drawer at home. It feels like a piece of the day I do not want to throw away.
There is a shortcut I take between two apartment buildings where the air always smells like laundry detergent. The scent floats through the alley and mixes with the parking lot smell behind the next building. I draw there sometimes because the lighting is weird. The walls reflect light in a way that makes shadows look double. The dogs do not care for the alley because there is not much to sniff, but I like the quiet. I draw the shapes of the fire escapes and the rectangles of the windows. The lines stack on top of each other like steps leading upward.
There is a wide open field near the southern end of the park where families play soccer in the evenings. There is no shortage of drawing ideas here. The kids run in circles more than they actually play, and the parents stand on the sidelines cheering even when nothing really happens. The dogs love this field because it smells like grass and snacks and the excitement of people moving fast. I stand off to the side and sketch the way the kids chase the ball. Their movements are wild and loose, arms flapping, legs kicking at the air. I never try to draw faces when people move that quickly. I just follow the lines of their motion. Later, when I look at the sketch, I can feel the energy again, even if the shapes barely make sense.
There is a bench near the field where an older woman sits every evening with a newspaper. She reads slowly, turning each page with care. Sometimes she glances up to watch the kids. I have drawn her so many times that I could probably sketch her from memory. The way her shoulders round forward, the way she holds the paper close to her face, the way her shoes always point a little inward. She has never spoken to me, but she always nods when she sees me walk by. I like that quiet connection. It is funny how people in the city become familiar without saying a word.
Sometimes, when the dogs and I walk along the outer paths of the park, we see joggers passing in steady waves. Their footsteps tap a clear rhythm on the pavement. I draw their legs more than anything else because legs carry so much of the story. The angle of a knee, the stretch of a stride, the tilt of a hip. You can tell a lot about a person by how they run. Some push themselves hard. Some move as if they are dreaming. Some jog just to feel the air on their face. Drawing joggers keeps me on my toes because they come and go so fast that I barely get more than a few seconds each time.
One of my favorite little drawing themes is capturing how people hold bags. A grocery bag hanging from two fingers. A backpack slung over one shoulder. A tote bag pressed against someone's side. These small things show personality without needing any detail. You can tell if someone is in a hurry or just wandering by how tightly they grip their bag. I draw those shapes quickly, like snapshots on paper. Sometimes the bags look more detailed than the people carrying them, but that is okay. It is what my eye grabs first.
There is a water fountain with a small dog bowl attached to the bottom near the main path. Dogs rush to it after a long walk. Some lap the water politely. Others splash and make a mess. I like drawing the reflections of their faces in the metal bowl. The curves distort everything, and sometimes it makes the whole scene look like a funhouse mirror. People walking past always smile when they see dogs drinking that way. I sketch their smiles too, even though it is hard to catch a smile before it fades.
On colder days, the park has a different sound. Leaves crunch underfoot. The wind whistles through bare branches. Dogs breathe little clouds of warm air into the cold. I draw those breath clouds sometimes, even though they vanish fast. They look like soft white shapes in the air. People hurry through the park in thicker coats, and the dogs walk closer to my legs like they want to share warmth. I draw the way jackets fold and puff, the way scarves wrap around necks, the way hands disappear into pockets. Even bundled up, everyone moves with their own rhythm.
There is a part of the path that curves around a community garden. The garden is behind a tall fence, but you can see bursts of color through the gaps. Volunteers bend over the soil, pulling weeds or planting something new. I like drawing the shapes of their backs as they work. There is something peaceful about people tending to the earth in the middle of a busy city. The dogs sniff along the fence while I lean close and sketch the patterns of the plants and the outlines of the gardeners. Even these small scenes feel rich with life.
I once stopped near a playground and saw a little girl teaching her younger brother how to ride a bike. She held onto the back of his seat and ran beside him while he wobbled and squealed. I drew the tilt of the bike and the determination on the girl's face, even though I did not get her eyes right. When the boy finally pedaled on his own, she threw her arms in the air and shouted, You did it! The dogs barked happily as if they understood the celebration. It was one of those moments that made the whole day brighter.
Some afternoons the park smells like fresh cut grass after the grounds crew mows the fields. That smell makes me feel like I am ten years old again, even though I cannot explain why. I draw grass lines a lot, especially the way they bend when the breeze moves them. The dogs roll in the cut grass, leaving green streaks on their fur that the owners usually laugh at later. I sketch them while they roll and twist. Grass is harder to draw than it looks because every blade curves differently, but capturing the general motion feels good enough.
There is a tiny hill near the main path where skateboarders sometimes rest between runs. They sit with their boards lying across their legs, talking about tricks they almost landed or times they fell hard enough to earn a story. I draw the boards more than their faces. Each board has its own pattern of scratches and stickers, like a map of everything that has happened to it. The dogs sniff around their shoes, and the skateboarders laugh and scratch the dogs behind the ears. It feels like a friendly pause in the middle of the day.
In the winter, the park changes again. The trees look bare and tall, like their bones are showing. The dogs walk faster to stay warm. People keep their heads down, tucked into scarves. I sketch the sharp angles of branches, the long shadows cast by lampposts, and the breath rising from both people and dogs. Even though winter makes my hands cold and the paper stiff, the drawings from those months look stronger somehow. The lines get sharper. The shapes get clearer. Maybe the cold makes me pay attention differently.
Sometimes I reach the top of the hill near the river and just stand there for a while before sketching. The wind hits my face, and the dogs stand beside me, staring at the open space. Boats move slowly along the water. Birds glide overhead. Everything stretches out wide and quiet. It feels good to draw the horizon, even if it is just a few straight lines. Drawing something that does not move gives me a different kind of calm than the quick sketches of people and dogs.
At night, when I am finally home and the city has settled into its quieter hum, I flip through the pages from the day and sometimes find shapes I did not even remember drawing. A curve that looks nicer than I expected. A scribble that shows motion better than I thought. Little surprises that make me feel like I am learning something without meaning to. That might be my favorite part. The way drawing turns the day into something I can hold.
There is a wooden footbridge near the east side of the park where the planks creak under your feet no matter how lightly you step. The dogs lift their heads every time the bridge groans, like they think someone is sneaking up behind us. I walk across it slowly, listening to the sounds and watching the ripples beneath us. Sometimes I stop in the middle and sketch the lines of the railing. The way the wood bends slightly. The way the shadows fall through the gaps. The dogs usually sniff the edges while I draw. Those quick drawing breaks feel like a small breather, almost like the bridge itself tells me to slow down.
There is a man who practices tai chi early in the morning on the open lawn. His movements are slow and smooth, like he is pushing air around. I like drawing him because his poses hold still long enough for me to catch the general shape. The dogs sit beside me and watch, tilting their heads as if they are trying to understand the strange dance. Sometimes he nods when he notices me sketching, but he never speaks. I think he appreciates the quiet as much as I do. His motions look peaceful in a way that settles my mind for the rest of the day.
On sunny weekends, people fill the park with bikes, picnic blankets, strollers, coolers, and little speaker boxes playing music. The dogs get distracted by everything. They pull toward every smell, every kid holding food, every dog passing by. On those days, I draw in tiny bursts. A few lines while the dogs pause. A quick outline when someone stops to tie their shoe. A shadow shape while I stand in the shade waiting for the dogs to settle. I used to think I needed quiet and stillness to draw, but the park taught me that movement is just part of the deal. You draw when you can and let the day guide the rest.
There is one specific lamppost near the north entrance that has become a sort of checkpoint for me. It leans a little to the right, and the paint near the bottom has peeled off in strips. I draw it behind different dogs throughout the week. Each time I pass it, the light hits it differently. Sometimes it glows warm. Sometimes it looks dull. Once, the shadow of a passing bicycle stretched across it in a perfect curve that I tried to catch before the bike disappeared. I only got half the shape, but that was enough to make the moment stick in my memory.
A lot of people in the park carry coffee cups, and I have started drawing those cups more often than I mean to. The way people hold them says a lot about their day. A tight grip means they are rushing. A loose grip means they are wandering. Some people cradle their cups with both hands like they are cold. Some lift them lightly between two fingers. I like catching those little gestures. They feel honest. Dogs sniff at the cups sometimes, hoping for a crumb or a drop, and people laugh even when it catches them off guard.
There is an older dog named Bailey who moves slowly and carefully, as if she is counting every step. When I walk her, I never hurry. We move at her pace, which gives me more time to look around. I draw things I would have rushed past otherwise. The curve of a fence. The pattern of a bench back. The shape of a pigeon hopping along the path. Bailey stands beside me and watches people walk by, her tail wagging in slow sweeps. I think she enjoys the breaks as much as I do.
One day, I saw a young couple balancing a pizza box between them as they walked. They were laughing because the wind kept trying to flip the lid open. The dogs froze, staring at the smell like they had discovered treasure. While the couple walked away, I drew the tilt of the pizza box and the curve of their arms holding it steady. The sketch looked silly, but it captured something sweet. Moments like that remind me that drawings do not have to be deep or serious. Sometimes they are just snapshots of small joy passing by.
There is a stretch of path where the gravel crunches louder than anywhere else in the park. The sound follows me for several minutes as I walk, like I am walking through a bowl of tiny rocks. The dogs sometimes paw at the gravel, trying to figure out why it sounds the way it does. I draw the texture of it when I stop. Tiny dots. Tiny lines. It is not exciting, but it trains my hand to pay attention. Even something as simple as gravel has a rhythm if you let yourself listen long enough.
The statue near the west entrance is one of my favorite landmarks to sketch. It is an old bronze figure of a man holding a book, and kids like to climb on the base even though they are not supposed to. The dogs sniff around the statue's feet while I draw the angle of the book or the way the shadows stretch down the pedestal. Sometimes the light makes the bronze look greenish. Sometimes it looks brownish. I like seeing the statue change depending on the weather. It makes something old feel new again.
There was a morning when the sky turned a pale pink before the sun fully came up. The whole park looked washed in soft color, like someone dipped everything in watercolor paint. I drew the skyline behind the trees even though my pencil could not capture the colors. The dogs sat quietly beside me, maybe confused by the strange light. I sketched fast because the pink only lasted a minute, but even the quick lines carry a bit of that calm feeling with them.
I also draw a lot of benches. Benches with people on them. Benches with dogs tied to the side. Benches with no one at all. Benches look simple until you try to draw them. Their angles trick you. The slats bend in ways you do not expect. The shadows fall between the boards just slightly off from where you imagine. Still, I keep drawing them. Benches feel like the backbone of the park. They hold hundreds of small stories every day, and sketching them helps me feel connected to those stories even if they are not mine.
Sometimes the wind carries smells from the food vendors near the street. Pretzels, grilled meat, roasted nuts. The dogs pull toward those smells hard enough to nearly drag me. I draw the vendor carts when I can. The folded umbrellas. The little metal boxes. The smoke rising from the grills. People crowd around, waving bills or pointing at menus. I like the way the carts look like tiny moving islands in the middle of everything. Drawing them makes the day feel bustling in a good way.
Whenever I get stuck and cannot decide what to sketch, I draw shadows. Long ones. Short ones. Soft ones. Broken ones. Shadows do whatever they want depending on the time of day. Sometimes they stretch across the whole path. Sometimes they fall in little pieces under trees. Drawing shadows calms me because I do not have to get the details right. I just follow the shape and let it lead me. The dogs often nap while I do this, curled up near my feet, their own shadows tucked under them like blankets.
There is a bike repair stand near the park entrance where people stop to pump their tires or tighten something with the tools chained to the post. The dogs and I pass it almost every day, and sometimes I pause to watch someone fixing a loose wheel or adjusting a seat. I draw the angles of the bike frames and the way people lean over them with focused faces. There is something steady about the scene. Tools clink, wheels spin, and the dogs sniff the posts like they are part of the ritual. On slower days, I take a seat on the curb and sketch the whole setup, even if it looks like one big tangle of lines.
A lot of people walk through the park talking on their phones. Some are calm, some are upset, and some talk with their hands even when no one can see them. I like drawing the hands the most. Fingers spread wide in frustration. One hand holding the phone close. A thumb tapping the screen while they walk. Dogs often nudge these people because dogs love to interrupt things, and I always apologize, but most people smile and go right back to whatever they were saying. I capture these moments quickly, tiny gestures that tell tiny stories.
Sometimes the park gets so crowded that I end up guiding the dogs to the quieter edges. These areas are filled with tall grass, uneven fences, and patches of wildflowers that look like they grew without asking permission. I stop there and draw the flowers bending in the breeze. Their petals move so fast that I have to simplify them to little shapes, but I do not mind. The dogs wander around sniffing the ground while I sketch in silence. These sketching breaks feel like a reset button after too much noise.
There is a long staircase near the museum with wide steps that look like they were made for sitting more than climbing. People gather there to rest, talk, eat snacks, or just watch the park. I sit on the side sometimes with the dogs stretched out beside me. I draw the steps in long lines, trying to capture the way they layer on top of each other. People sitting on the stairs make interesting shapes too. Bent backs. Slouched shoulders. Bags resting against legs. I draw whatever catches my eye. It is amazing how much variety there is in something as simple as sitting.
One time I watched a man juggle three bright red balls near the fountain. He was not performing for anyone. He just seemed to be practicing. The balls moved in clean arcs, rising and falling with a rhythm that felt almost musical. The dogs stared in amazement, their heads turning back and forth with the motion. I tried to sketch the arcs of the balls, but they moved so smoothly that my lines kept lagging behind. Still, even the half-caught shapes looked lively on the page. I like when drawings feel like they are still moving.
The park has a dog run where dogs play off leash, and sometimes I stop outside the fence to draw the chaos inside. Dogs chasing each other, jumping, tumbling, barking, rolling. It is like trying to draw popcorn exploding. Every sketch is wild and messy, but there is something fun about it. The dogs I walk watch the dogs inside with wide eyes, their tails wagging hard. Sometimes I draw their faces pressed against the fence because the eagerness looks funny and sweet at the same time.
There is a particular bend in the river path where cyclists always slow down because the turn is too sharp. I stand there sometimes and draw the curve of the path. The metal railing. The shadows from the trees above. Cyclists come around the bend like colorful blurs. I try to catch their shapes before they disappear. The dogs sniff the stone wall while I sketch. Sometimes a cyclist nods or waves when they notice me drawing. Little moments like that remind me that the park is full of people weaving through each other's routines.
On hot days, kids run through the sprinklers near the playground. The dogs tug toward the spray, and I have to coax them away so they do not get soaked. The air fills with laughter and the sound of water hitting the ground. I draw the arcs of the water and the blurry shapes of the kids running through it. Water is hard to draw, but the motion helps me focus on the shapes instead of the details. Even a few simple lines can show the joy of the moment.
Sometimes, I catch sight of someone sitting alone on a bench, lost in thought. Maybe they are reading. Maybe they are watching people go by. Maybe they are thinking about something they are not ready to say out loud. I draw the slope of their shoulders or the way their hands rest on their lap. These quiet figures feel soft and real to me, like they are part of the park's heartbeat. The dogs often sit quietly too, as if they sense the stillness in the air.
I also draw pigeons more than I admit. They walk with such confidence, bobbing their heads like they are keeping time with music only they can hear. The dogs usually pull toward them, noses twitching, and the pigeons flap away just in time. I sketch their wings in mid lift or the round shape of their bodies on the ground. Even a few lines can make a pigeon look lively. It makes me laugh how much personality they have when you watch them closely.
The playground makes a different kind of noise in the late afternoon. The swings creak. Kids shout across the climbing frames. Parents talk in clusters. The dogs sniff the mulch under the swings while I sketch the long arcs of the swing chains. Sometimes I draw the shadows instead of the swings. Shadows stretch out like thin ghost versions of the real thing, and I like how they turn ordinary shapes into something a little strange.
On days when the sky is overcast, the whole park feels muted. Colors soften. Sounds blur. Even the dogs walk a little slower, as if saving their energy. I sit on a bench and draw the soft edges of things. No sharp shadows. No bright highlights. Just calm shapes. I like the way my drawings look on these days. They feel gentle, like the park is exhaling.
There is a bus stop near the far street where people line up in a loose row. Some lean on the pole. Some check their watches. Some look down the road impatiently. The dogs sniff near the base of the pole while I sketch the group. I do not draw faces there either. I draw the tilt of shoulders, the angles of elbows, the curve of someone’s bag strap. These shapes tell the story well enough. When the bus finally comes, the crowd moves like a single wave, and I try to capture the motion before the doors close.
There is a long wooden bench near the lake where fishermen sit in the very early mornings. They cast their lines in smooth, practiced motions that look almost like they have been doing the same move for decades. Some hold the rods loosely, letting the line drift however it wants. Others grip tightly like they are waiting for something big. The dogs sit beside me and watch the ripples on the water while I sketch the curve of the fishing rods and the gentle slope of the men’s shoulders. The whole scene always feels slow and steady, like the lake itself is deciding how the morning should go.
Sometimes the fishermen talk to each other in soft voices, almost whispers. I can never hear the words, but the rhythm of their voices makes the whole moment feel calm. I draw their silhouettes when the sun rises behind them. The shapes look simple on paper, but when I flip back to those pages, I can feel the quiet in them. It reminds me that good drawings do not always need strong detail. They just need the truth of the moment.
There was one morning when the fog hovered over the lake, and the fishermen looked like shadows sitting on a floating bench. The dogs could hardly see anything and kept sniffing the air as if trying to understand where the horizon went. I opened my notebook and tried to capture the fog itself. Fog is tricky because it does not really have shape. You have to draw the things behind it and let them fade. I made a few soft lines, smudged them with my thumb, and watched the scene blur on the page. Even though the drawing looked unfinished, it matched the mood perfectly.
A woman I see often on the trail stopped one morning to look at what I was drawing. She said she wished she had time to learn new hobbies, and she asked how I come up with things to sketch every day. I told her I do not really think about it. Being out here walking dogs gives me all the drawing ideas I could ever need. The city hands them to me without trying. She laughed and said maybe she needed to slow down more. Then she ran off down the trail again, her ponytail swinging behind her like a ribbon.
The dogs get restless if we stay in one place too long, so after the lake sketch, we usually move up the hill toward the lookout point. The hill is steeper than it looks, and by the time we reach the top, everyone is breathing a little heavier. Up there, the entire park spreads out below us, and I can see the paths like thin lines weaving in different directions. I sit on a rock and draw the horizon, even if the dogs keep tugging at the leashes because they smell something interesting behind the bushes. The wide view helps reset my eyes after so many tiny details during the morning.
There is a man who walks his three beagles around the same time I climb the hill. They howl at everything, even the wind. The sound echoes across the open space, and the dogs I walk always bark back, creating a short, chaotic chorus. I sketch the beagles’ round shapes when they pause. Their bodies make these funny sturdy curves that are easy to draw even from a distance. The man always waves at me, his hands full of tangled leashes. I think he enjoys the chaos a little too much.
Sometimes I draw the sky from the lookout, especially when the clouds stretch into long streaks that look like someone brushed white paint across the blue. The dogs sit on either side of me, panting softly, their heads turning every time a bird flies overhead. Drawing the sky makes me feel small in a good way. Like I am just one tiny piece moving through something much bigger. The lines end up simple, but the feeling behind them stays with me all day.
On days when the wind is light, I sit in the grass and let the dogs sniff around while I draw the distant buildings rising beyond the park. They look sharp and tall from far away, but when I sketch them quickly, they turn into soft rectangles stacked in uneven rows. I do not try to make them perfectly straight. I just draw them the way they feel. The dogs sometimes wander close and try to sniff the paper. One of them stepped on the sketch once and left a tiny paw print on the corner. I kept it because it felt like part of the day.
There is a group of older men who meet near the chess tables every afternoon. They set up boards, slam the pieces down with dramatic flair, and argue about strategy even when they all know exactly what move is coming next. The dogs sit near my feet while I draw the way their hands hover over the pieces. Chess hands look different from other hands. They have this quiet tension in them. A readiness. I try to capture that feeling in my lines. Sometimes a player leans back and glances at my notebook, then nods in approval before returning to the game.
Further down the path, there is a shaded area where the benches form a loose half circle. Musicians gather there sometimes with guitars, violins, or even a small drum. When they play, the sound drifts through the trees and pulls people in. The dogs lie down at my feet, listening in that peaceful, alert way dogs do. I sketch the musicians' posture, the angle of the guitar neck, the sweep of a bow, the way their shoulders move with the rhythm. I never try to draw their faces because the music feels more important than the details. I just want to capture the feeling of the moment.
Sometimes I stay there longer than I plan to because the music slows the day down. People walking by stop to listen. Kids dance without caring who watches. A few runners pause to stretch while they listen to a verse or two. All those layered movements create a scene I love drawing. Even if I only get a few lines down before the dogs tug at the leashes, the drawing holds the memory of the music. When I flip through my sketchbook later, I can almost hear it again.
As the afternoon moves toward evening, the light changes again, turning the park softer. The dogs walk closer to me, their bodies tired from the miles. I sketch their shadows stretching across the path. Long, thin shapes that look like stretched-out versions of themselves. I also draw the way the leaves above us filter the light, making the whole walkway flicker with little bright patches. The dogs sometimes stop to stare at those patches like they think they can catch them.
By the time we finish the last loop through the trees, I can feel the day settling inside me. The dogs breathe heavier. The sun hangs lower. People move a little slower. I take out my notebook for one last drawing before heading home. Sometimes I draw the closest branch. Sometimes a bench leg. Sometimes one of the dogs resting with its paws crossed. It does not matter what I draw. What matters is that I end the day having noticed something. A shape. A shadow. A tiny moment that would have slipped past me if I had not stopped long enough to put it on the page.
There is a cluster of picnic tables under a big canopy of trees where families gather most evenings. The dogs and I pass through this area on our way back toward the quieter paths, and every time we do, the place feels like a small neighborhood inside the park. Parents spread out snacks, kids run in loose circles, and someone always drops a cracker or two, which the dogs find instantly. While the noise swirls around us, I sit at the edge and sketch the way the tables fill with life. I draw elbows leaning in, hands reaching for food, feet tapping under the benches. The lines feel warm on the page, like the scene carries its own light.
One evening, a boy around ten years old walked over and asked what I was drawing. I turned the notebook so he could see the rough outlines of people gathered around a table. He squinted, then nodded like he was evaluating something serious. He asked if he could draw something too. I handed him a spare pencil, and he sat beside me on the ground. He drew a dog, or maybe a creature that looked like a dog if you tilted your head a little. He smiled proudly and said dogs are the easiest because they have the best shapes. I told him he was right. He gave the notebook back, waved, and ran off to join his family. I kept his little drawing right there on the page.
Sometimes at this spot, people bring portable lamps once the sun dips low. A soft yellow glow spreads across the tables and lights up the leaves above. It makes everything look gentler. I sketch the way the leaves catch the light in uneven patches. The dogs sit near me, worn out from the day. One of them rests its chin on my foot. That tiny weight always gives me this strange comfort, like the dog is saying the day is winding down and we can slow our breathing with it.
There is a wide gravel path near the outer edge of the park where runners like to gather in groups. They stretch against the railing, chatting and laughing before starting their route. I like drawing their warmup poses, especially the stretches where they lean forward with their arms extended. The dogs watch them, tails wagging at the movement, as if they want to join the run. I sketch quickly because the runners move on fast, their shoes smacking against the ground in a rhythm that feels steady and strong. The page fills with diagonal lines and curved backs and the slight tilt of a focused face.
One afternoon, the sky darkened faster than expected, and a storm rolled in with almost no warning. People hurried to gather their things. Dogs pulled at leashes. A gust of wind sent cups rolling across the grass. The first drops of rain hit hard, tapping on the canopy like fingers drumming a table. I pulled the dogs toward a sheltered area under a stone archway and waited for the worst of it to pass. While we sat there, I sketched the zigzag of the rain hitting the pavement. The lines came out messy, but they fit the moment. The storm felt wild, but under the archway, it also felt strangely peaceful.
The air smelled like wet leaves and damp earth after the rain ended. The dogs shook themselves off so hard that water flew in every direction. People emerged from their hiding spots, stepping back onto the path cautiously. I drew the reflections of puddles stretching across the walkway. A runner splashed through one, sending ripples outward. A child stomped through another just for fun. The puddles made the whole world look doubled. While sketching those reflections, I thought about how many drawing ideas show up only when the weather changes. The rain turns the park into something new for a little while.
The storm left behind a cool breeze that made the late afternoon feel fresh. The dogs and I continued along the path, water dripping from the trees above. I stopped near a row of tall plants with long, thin stalks. The wind pushed them back and forth, creating a slow wave that moved down the entire row. I tried to draw that wave, even though it shifted every second. The dogs sniffed the plants, sending the stalks wobbling faster. I sketched the blur of motion, not the details, and ended up liking the result more than I expected.
There is a stone wall near the old boathouse where I like to sit when the day is almost over. The wall is cool against my back, and the dogs settle beside me, one on each side. People walk past on their way home, some talking quietly, others checking their phones. I draw the shapes of their footsteps, or at least the rhythm of them. It sounds strange, but footsteps have a shape in my mind. Quick ones slant forward. Slow ones droop downward. I try to follow that feeling on the page.
Some evenings, a man brings a small radio and plays classical music near that same wall. He sets the radio on the ground and stands still, hands behind his back, listening. His dog curls at his feet, half asleep. The music floats into the air, and I draw the curve of his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. People walking by sometimes pause, tilting their heads. The scene always feels calm and full at the same time. I draw the dog too, stretched long and comfortable. Those simple shapes make the page feel peaceful.
When the sun finally drops below the buildings, the sky turns a deep purple, and the park lights switch on one by one. I draw the glow of the lamps as little circles of light spreading outward. The dogs sit close to me, tired and soft with the end of the day. I trace the lines of their ears and the gentle slouch in their posture. There is something comforting about sketching them in low light. The world feels slower, and even the smallest line carries a little bit of quiet.
Before we leave the park, I almost always check the river one last time. The water flickers with reflections from the city lights, stretching into long shapes that move across the surface. I sketch them quickly, even if the lines come out uneven. The dogs stand beside me, their tags jingling softly. Drawing the reflections feels like closing a chapter for the day, even if the drawing is only a few strokes.
By the time we reach the exit, the dogs walk close to my legs, almost ready to fall asleep. I slide my notebook back into my bag and take a slow breath. Every page I filled that day holds something real. Something that would have slipped past me if I had not paused long enough to draw it. Walking home, I feel the weight of those moments in the best way. Like the day decided to tell me tiny stories, and my pencil did its best to listen.
There is a quiet service road behind the park that most people never walk down unless they work nearby. I take it sometimes when the dogs need a slower, calmer stretch to finish the day. The road runs behind a row of maintenance buildings, each with big metal doors and peeling paint. You would not think it has anything worth drawing, but it does. The shadows fall in long stripes across the pavement, and the cracks in the asphalt make these winding lines that look almost like tiny rivers. I sit on an overturned bucket near the corner, and the dogs lie down beside me, already half asleep. I sketch the shadows and the cracks, simple shapes that feel like closing thoughts.
Sometimes a maintenance worker steps outside while I am drawing. They usually light a cigarette or check their phone and nod at me before heading back inside. One man once asked why I would want to draw something back here when the whole park is full of bigger scenes. I told him I like the quiet corners. The parts people overlook. He smiled and said he guessed that made sense. Maybe drawing makes all the places worth something if you pay enough attention to them.
A little farther down the service road, there is a fence covered in ivy. The leaves twist through the metal openings, turning the whole thing into one big woven pattern. I draw that fence often, following the curves of the vines with slow strokes. The dogs sniff the grass on the other side, tails wagging gently. Something about the way the leaves wrap themselves around the fence makes me think about how the day wraps around me. Each moment touching another, even if I do not see how at the time.
There was a late evening when I stopped at the ivy fence longer than planned. The sun was almost gone, but a little pink light still clung to the edge of the sky. The dogs rested at my feet, stretched long and lazy. I sketched the vines in the fading light, and the page filled with soft, wavering lines. A woman walking her own dog passed by and asked if I ever run out of things to draw. I told her no, not really. The city keeps offering more than I can ever catch. I told her even small objects can spark new drawing ideas if you look at them long enough. She smiled and said maybe she should try drawing again someday.
On the way home, the path curves near a cluster of lampposts that cast warm circles of light on the ground. The dogs slow down here, their paws padding softly across the pavement. I sketch those circles sometimes, even while standing. The light falls in fuzzy edges that blur into the darkness. These drawings are never perfect, but I like the feeling they carry. They look like small islands floating in the night.
There is an old stone fountain near the park exit that I pass at the end of almost every route. Even when the water is not running, the fountain has a solid, ancient feeling to it. The dogs sniff the base while I draw the curve of the basin or the chipped edge along the side. I do not stay long, just a minute or two. But sketching the fountain makes the exit feel less like leaving and more like a gentle pause before stepping back into the city.
Sometimes I walk past a bakery right before turning onto my street. Warm air spills out when someone opens the door, and the smell of bread mixes with the evening air. The dogs always perk up at the scent, lifting their noses high. I draw the bakery window, the soft glow inside, the way loaves are stacked in uneven rows. The drawings come out cozy-looking, like they hold the warmth of the ovens. I often debate stopping for a pastry, but the dogs tug me along, eager to reach home.
When I finally reach my apartment building, I lean down to unclip the leashes, giving each dog a scratch behind the ears before they trot toward the lobby or wait for their owners at the door. I stand on the sidewalk for a moment afterward, letting the day settle. My sketchbook feels heavier in my bag, not from the paper itself but from everything it holds. Every smudge, every crooked line, every quick scribble is a memory I might have forgotten if I had not paused to draw it.
Upstairs in my apartment, I empty my pockets out of habit. Crumpled treat wrappers. A stray pencil cap. A folded napkin someone handed me when one of the dogs drooled too much. Then I take out the sketchbook and flip through the pages. Some drawings look better than I thought. Some look worse. A few look like something a child might have drawn. But whether good or awkward, each one feels true. I can see the moments inside them. The quiet bench. The windy hill. The lake at dawn. The dancer on the grass. The dogs rolling in the shade. The ordinary beauty tucked into the day.
Sometimes I sit at my small table, turn on a soft lamp, and pick one sketch to redraw on a clean page. I do not try to make it perfect. I just let the memory guide my hand. Maybe I add a few details I missed earlier. Maybe I leave the original lines exactly as they were. The sketch becomes a little fuller, but it still carries the feeling of the moment. It is strange how memory and pencil lines blend together, each one shaping the other.
I think the reason these drawings matter so much to me is that they help me hold onto the day in a way nothing else does. Walking dogs can feel repetitive if you only pay attention to the steps, but if you look closely, every route is different. A new shadow. A new crack in the sidewalk. A new person passing through. Sketching keeps me awake to all of it. It turns the simple routines into something meaningful.
Before I go to bed, I place the sketchbook beside the door so I will remember to bring it again tomorrow. I know the dogs will be ready to run the moment I clip the leashes on. I know the city will be buzzing with life. And I know I will find something worth drawing, even if I do not know what it will be yet. That mystery feels comforting. There is always something waiting out there, some moment that wants to be noticed, some shape that will pull my pencil across the page before I even think about it.
And as I turn off the light and the room settles into quiet, I feel grateful for all of it. For the dogs. For the park. For the small pockets of peace. For the busy corners. For the countless tiny scenes that fill each day. And for the simple habit of stopping to look, really look, at the world around me. It makes the walking feel richer. It makes the drawing feel honest. And it makes the whole day feel like something worth carrying forward.