There’s a system to this, even if it doesn’t look like one from the outside.
Our pre-hike routine gives Cheeto a clear understanding of what’s about to happen. The same cues appear in the same order: shoes, harness, backpack, outside. That predictability gives him stability and makes the expectations surrounding an adventure familiar before we ever leave the house.
Entering the backpack is part of that sequence. He may spend most of the actual walk exploring on his own four paws, but every adventure begins with him getting into the backpack first. It isn’t where he has to stay—it’s the familiar transition between being safely inside and being allowed to explore outdoors.
What goes in Cheeto’s backpack
Two bottles of water, every time. Whenever Cheeto asks for water, he gets it. He knows I carry it for him, and I think that certainty—knowing it will be there when he needs it—is part of what keeps him steady out there.
His bowl, already cleaned from the last hike, lives in his backpack pocket so I’m never scrambling for it. My wallet lives there too. I don’t carry a purse, and I’m not much of a wallet person either, so keeping it zipped into Cheeto’s backpack means I grab the backpack whenever I leave. That means Cheeto comes along on a lot more little adventures, even if it’s only a quick run to the store.
His leash and harness stay clipped inside the backpack itself, always. Never loose, never stored somewhere else. That’s on purpose. It means the zipper sound only ever means one thing to him—we’re headed out into the wild. Not a random noise. Not a maybe. One sound, one meaning.
Our complete practical packing list lives on Cheeto’s trail-ready cat hiking checklist.
The cues that tell him an adventure is coming
But honestly, he doesn’t even need the zipper. He knows the second I put my tennis shoes on. I don’t wear them out much without him, so somewhere along the way it became his cue—shoes on, adventure’s happening. On the rare day I put on my tennis shoes without taking him, I genuinely feel bad. I know what that cue means to him, and I don’t want to be the one who makes it mean less.
The second the backpack hits the floor, he’s already meowing at me, inquiring about things I can’t fully answer yet—where, how far, are we leaving now? He knows. And at that point, the whole routine turns into a race against how fast we can actually get out the door, because he’s ready before I am.
How we keep each other aware
For me, it’s keys, headphones, him—always in that order. I’m deaf, and the road noise near us can quickly overwhelm what hearing I have. So I watch Cheeto closely out there: his ears, his posture, and where his attention goes. He often notices what’s around us before I do. Out there, he’s not just my company. He’s part of how I hear the world.
“Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” — Isaiah 30:21
Lord, thank You for giving me ears in the places I don’t have my own—through Cheeto, through the people You’ve placed around me, and through Your own quiet voice. Help me keep listening. Amen.