When most people think of a golf course, they picture quiet greens, serious golfers in polos, and someone whispering “nice putt.” But for me and my Boxer, Buddy, the old Hope Mills Golf Course has a very different meaning. Since it’s been transformed into a walking pathway, it’s become our personal playground—a wide-open wonderland where Buddy can run, sniff, and investigate every mysterious bundle of grass like it holds the secrets of the universe.
And let me tell you: Buddy takes this job very seriously.
Buddy is no fool. The moment he sees me pulling on my walking clothes—especially my sneakers—it’s like a starter pistol goes off in his brain. His tail wiggles so hard I’m amazed he doesn’t just levitate off the floor. To him, sneakers mean adventure, and adventure means one thing: the old golf course.
As soon as I grab his leash, he’s already at the door, giving me that Boxer side-eye as if to say, “Hurry up, woman. We’ve got twigs to inspect.”
The best part of the Hope Mills pathway is the sheer openness of it. You can see far off in every direction, which makes it the perfect place to let Buddy run free when no one else is around. I always keep his leash ready, but the look of joy on his face when he realizes he’s been granted off-leash freedom? Priceless.
He takes off like a racehorse leaving the starting gate, legs stretched, ears flapping, tongue hanging out like a flag of pure happiness. Meanwhile, I keep my steady pace, watching him zigzag, circle back, and keep one eye locked on “mama.” For all his energy, he’s never far—Buddy knows his boundaries, and he’s an obedient boy who always comes back to check in.
Now, to the untrained eye, a bundle of grass or a pile of twigs might look ordinary. To Buddy, however, it’s a mystery novel, a history textbook, and a crime drama all rolled into one. He sniffs with the intensity of a detective piecing together clues. I sometimes imagine him narrating it:
“Hmm, yes, a Labrador was here on Thursday. He was chasing a ball, stopped for a potty break. Oh, what’s this? A squirrel passed by at approximately 7:45 this morning. Fascinating.”
Every sniff is an investigation, every twig a case to solve. If Buddy ever joined law enforcement, he wouldn’t be in the K-9 unit. He’d be the CSI: Hope Mills Division.
While Buddy’s nose works overtime, I just walk and watch. Honestly, there’s nothing I love more than seeing him run free. There’s a kind of joy dogs radiate when they’re doing exactly what they were meant to do—running, exploring, living in the moment. Watching Buddy sprint across that open field, I swear he’s grinning from ear to floppy ear.
It’s hard not to laugh when he gallops back toward me, full Boxer bounce, as if to say, “Did you see that, Mom? I ran all the way over THERE and back again!” Yes, Buddy, I saw. And yes, you’re very fast.
Of course, no great adventure is complete without a grand finale, and Buddy knows exactly what comes next. Starbucks.
The moment we pull into the parking lot, he knows. Forget subtlety—this dog turns into a bubbling, drooling fountain of anticipation. He starts forming actual bubbles as soon as I roll down the window. The barista doesn’t even need me to order anymore. One look at Buddy’s face and they know: it’s pup cup time.
The pup cup ritual has become his crown jewel. He takes that little cup of whipped cream like it’s a Michelin-starred dessert. No dainty licks here—it’s face first, tongue in overdrive, whipped cream mustache proudly displayed. By the time he’s done, the cup looks like it went through a blender.
And Buddy? He sits back in the car, satisfied, bubbles wiped away, eyes gleaming with the contentment of a dog who has conquered the world.
What I love most about our walks at Hope Mills is the routine of it all. Buddy knows it. I know it. We’ve got our rhythm. Sneakers mean walking clothes. Walking clothes mean golf course adventures. Golf course adventures mean Starbucks pup cups.
It’s not fancy. It’s not complicated. But it’s ours. And in Buddy’s world, that routine is everything.
I’ve walked plenty of paths in my life, but none are as joyful as the ones I share with Buddy. He’s more than just a walking buddy—he’s my furry comedian, my running partner (well, his running, my steady pace), and my best audience. He keeps things interesting, whether it’s darting after a leaf, slinking back when I call his name, or bubbling with excitement at the mere sight of whipped cream.
People sometimes ask me if it’s a lot of work to own a dog, especially one with as much energy as a Boxer. The truth? Sure, it takes effort. But the return is joy, laughter, and unconditional love. Every walk reminds me that sometimes the simplest things—like a dog running free on an old golf course—are the moments that matter most.
So, if you ever find yourself at the old Hope Mills Golf Course and spot a woman walking at a steady pace while a goofy Boxer investigates every blade of grass in sight—that’s us. Buddy, the self-appointed inspector of twigs, and me, the steady-paced human who loves watching him run.
And if you see us pulling into Starbucks afterwards, don’t be surprised by the bubbles. That’s just Buddy, reminding the world that happiness sometimes comes in the form of whipped cream.