On winter walks, Abby flops on her back and rolls on lawn grass blanketed with hoar frost. Corgis have a double coat. They embrace the cold. With spring in the air, she’s more apt to turn an ear to the click of valley quail, sniff the bloom of primrose, and gaze at the flight of sandhill cranes. Corgis are alert to their surroundings.

Walks through our housing development take us along asphalt paths that crisscross an 18-hole golf course. Or perhaps beside a two-acre park where squirrels hide in the canopy of sycamore trees. Sunny days attract us to a small pond where migrating waterfowl gather. Another favorite place is a patch of ground where big sage, bunchgrass, and balsamroot thrive. Here, Abby is free to dig up gopher mounds and put her nose where skunks pass in the night.

Abby’s short legs operate double-time against my steady pace until a white SUV pulls over to the side of the road and a familiar man jumps out. “I couldn’t drive by without seeing my good friend,” he says, letting Abby jump into his arms and lick his face. Not a day goes by without someone remarking, “I like Corgis. They are such happy dogs.”

Mid-day walks lead to meeting other dogs and their owners. Dogs that trot obediently alongside a serious-looking handler. Dogs that drag their master along. Multiple dogs on multiple leashes. Dogs that lunge at every passerby they meet. Dogs whose owners, oblivious to their surroundings, talk into a cell phone.

We encounter fierce looking dogs, weight-challenged dogs, designer breeds of indeterminate parentage, and tiny dogs no larger than a gerbil. Some dogs are nicely groomed. Others appear as if cheated by genetics: head disproportionate to their body, tail like cotton candy on a rope, fluffy in the wrong places. One thing they all hold in common, however, is a proud owner.

Dog walking imparts a sense of fraternity for individuals who possess affection for their canine companion. “I got my hot water heater fixed yesterday,” a man with a neatly braided blond beard tells me. His small terrier is bundled up in a bright red insulated jacket.

While I hold Abby on tight leash, a pleasant lady explains that Mulligan, her rescue Chihuahua, doesn’t socialize. Abby wishes Mulligan would at least touch noses. “Have a great day,” a young man yells when he passes. His wild-eyed dog, Brodie, has loppy ears and a square face. Abby knows to remain at a safe distance.

Bella is a pretty Springer Spaniel, Jax is laid-back German Shepard, and Bailey a grumpy Schnauzer. I might forget a dog owner’s name, but their beloved pet’s moniker is committed to long-term memory.

Dog walkers come in all forms. A portly man travels sidewalks in an electric scooter with a wrinkle-face Pug in his lap. A gray-haired lady walks a Dachshund on a retractable leash while her partner follows in a golf cart. A bald-headed man, hatless no matter what the weather, struts his mustached Schnauzer. Then there is me, a retiree in an orange sweatshirt who roams the housing development with his two-year old Corgi, four times a day.

An 80-pound doodle dog broke free of its handler one morning. “He’s friendly!” the lady yelled, but that didn’t stop her unhinged animal from mauling Abby like a four-legged octopus.

“Is he your first dog?” I asked, once she gained control.

“Yes. He looked so cute when he was little. I didn’t know he would be this much work.”

“Abby is incorrigible at times,” I told her. “But I have no interest in training her to behave like a German soldier.”

Some folks wonder what it would feel like to fly like a bird. Others might dream of running like a gazelle. My wish is to someday know what it feels like to be a Corgi. I’d chase butterflies, roll on frost-covered lawns, and greet every person I meet with a wide-open smile.