One morning last October, we were on the sidewalk near my house, the same routine we did every day. A rabbit shot out from under a parked car.

Pineapple hit the end of the leash like a wrecking ball. I went down right onto the pavement, both knees, and my wrist folded under me when I tried to catch myself. The leash ripped out of my hand and he ran toward the road.

A neighbor's car was coming. Pineapple stopped at the curb, thank God, because something distracted him. But I was lying on the sidewalk with a sprained wrist and skinned knees, 53 years old, crying, watching my dog stand two feet from traffic.

That was the morning I started to hate walking with my dog.

I know how that sounds. I didn't stop walking him completely. But I started doing it less, and the less I did it the more wound up he got, and the more wound up he got the harder he pulled, and the harder he pulled the more I dreaded the next one. My shoulder ached for two days after every walk. I'd come back sweating and shaking and tell myself it was exercise.

And the embarrassment. That's the part nobody warns you about. Neighbors watched a grown woman get hauled down the street by a dog. A man actually said "who's walking who?" and chuckled, and I smiled like it was funny and went home and didn't walk Pineapple for three days.

I had a dog who needed to move but wasn't, because his owner was scared and embarrassed. I felt like the worst person alive.