When Maud was a puppy, she had excessive energy. Finding the right walking schedule for her was less a matter of logistics and more a quest—one that felt, at times, like chasing the Holy Grail. I’m not a morning person, and my work often stretches late into the night, so Maud and I found our rhythm in the moonlit hours. Our evening walks became our shared ritual: they helped her burn off that puppy energy, and they let me sleep past sunrise.
It didn’t begin with a route. We simply wandered—through St. Andrews’ quiet streets and by its weather-worn seaside homes, where flowerbeds whispered in the wind and store windows shifted colours and shades with the seasons. In those early days, it felt like we were discovering a new side of the town together. And often, somewhere along the way, we would run into Susan Goertzen.
Susan is something of a legend in St. Andrews. An early riser, she logs 10,000 steps before most people finish their first cup of coffee. By day, she walks even more at her job, guiding visitors across the historic grounds of Ministers Island, the former summer home of railway baron Sir William Van Horne.
When I first got Maud, Susan had just recently lost both of her beloved dogs, Rascal and Bandit, within six months of one another. I’d seen her walking alone in the weeks that followed, her steady pace unchanged, but her silhouette solitary. Still, she kept walking—out of habit, out of love for the town, or maybe simply because some part of her couldn’t give it up. Her dogs may have left her side, but they hadn’t left her heart.
Maud, in her over-excited friendliness, took to Susan immediately. And soon, our casual crossings turned into shared strolls. Some nights we barely spoke, our footsteps filling the silence. Other nights we took new streets, paused to admire a garden, or stopped to watch the moon dance on Passamaquoddy Bay.
Eventually, we set a meeting time. My husband, Patrick, joined in. And before we realized it, the route shaped itself: from our house on Water Street to Pendlebury Lighthouse, back through the business district and down to the wharf, up Harriett Street around the Algonquin Resort, and back down to Susan’s home on Parr. A nearly six-kilometre loop, walked in every season and almost every kind of weather. We stop often—chatting with neighbours, taking in a late sunset, lingering on the docks. The town moves more slowly at night. You see it differently. You see each other differently too.
Susan, who had raised dogs her whole life, became my go-to guide for all things canine. Maud was my first dog, and I didn’t always know what I was doing. Susan didn’t judge—she simply offered wisdom in her no-nonsense way, complemented by her Scottish accent. And Maud, for her part, gave Susan something too: the warmth of companionship, the joy of routine, the loyalty that only a dog can give.
More than six years later, our walks continue. The sunsets in July are beautiful, yes, but there’s a unique beauty in a winter walk—standing at the wharf, the town hushed by snow, the ocean roaring just beneath the silence. These walks have taught me to pay attention. To the town. To the tides. To people.
Susan has never gotten another dog. She says she likes the freedom to travel. But also—she has Maud. And Maud has Susan. When I’m away on long work trips, Susan picks up Maud at our usual meet-up time, walking Maud as if she were her own.
Because she is. And Susan, too, is ours.
Family is sometimes the neighbour down the street. It’s a dog who gets you out the door each night. It’s knowing when to talk, and when simply to walk side by side.
This town has taught me many things. But perhaps most of all, it has shown me how community is not something we find—it’s something we walk into, together.
