Eureka!

I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.

For 38 years, running has been my primary sport.  For 13 years, dogs — first Ricky the Beagle, now Kemba the Duck Toller — have been my passion.  From the git-go, my goal was to combine the two: to go running with my dog.

By now, you’ve all heard the story of how that went down with Ricky:  Hank, doing his pre-dog-selection due diligence (though internally having already made up his mind to get a beagle), asks dog specialist, “Will I be able to run with a beagle?”  Dog specialist answers extremely hesitantly, “Well . . . you may not get to run exactly the way you’re used to running, or the way you enjoy running.  Beagles are very easily distracted by scents, you know, and they’ll try to tug you all over the place.”  Hank conveniently gleans from this exchange that, yes, the beagle will make an excellent running companion.  Of course, this doesn’t work out at all.  Ricky can’t run 20 yards without stopping to sniff a clod of grass, a discarded Burger King wrapper, or some other dog’s poop.  He comes close to yanking Hank’s arm off at the shoulder each time he stops and digs in without warning.  The plan of running with Ricky is shelved after, oh, maybe three tries.

With Kemba?  Different dog.  Different story.  Kemba is an exercise freak, a quick learner, and eager to please.  In no time, he’s running on leash with me, adapting perfectly to my less-than-Olympian stride.  But the roads in Westport are narrow and winding.  Cars drive way too fast, because the citizens of WePo always need to get wherever it is they’re going in a tremendous hurry.  The leash gets tangled.  The routine, in spite of Kemba’s best efforts, is not ideal.  So I kind of give it up.

That is, until this past Friday, in Vermont.

We had plans to visit friends in Bennington for lunch, and I needed to take care of my exercise fix, as well as Kemba’s, before we left.  (It’s a fortunate happenstance that my dog and I require similar amounts of exercise, at similar intervals.)  Normally on a non-ski day — and there’ve been lots lately, since we haven’t had snow up in VT in many moons — I’d take Kemba for a long hike in the woods.  But there wasn’t time for that.

So I decided we’d try a run.   It was a gorgeous, blue-sky morning, temp just under 20 degrees.  I snapped an old black leash on my dog, an extra that I didn’t mind getting dirty if it dragged along the ground.  I started out holding the leash, but Kemba got what we were doing instantly — he always does — so I was able to drop it before we even left our spur off Glendon Hills Road.  My go-to run in VT — along French Hollow Road to the white house just before Route 30, then back — is all dirt road, through the woods, with cars passing only very occasionally.  A serene three miles.

On this Friday, I did it as a steady jog.  Kemba approached it more as interval training.  He’d run with me, stop to nibble some off-road branches, sprint to catch up.  Stop to pee, sprint to catch up.  Sprint ahead on principle, wait for me to pull even, stop to poop, sprint to catch up.  Sprint ahead again, always looking back for me if he got too far ahead.  If he dawdled in any one spot too long, I’d call, “Kemba, let’s go!” — and he’d come charging after me as if he’d been shot out of a cannon.  If he was tempted by a driveway or a barking dog, I’d firmly tell him, “No!” — and he’d resume the jog.  He heard approaching cars before I did, and waited with me along the side of the road until they passed.  He was the perfect dog.  It was a perfect run.  With the exception of letting the occasional car go by, I never had to stop, not even once.  It was a revelation.  An honest-to-God revelation.  There’s no other word for it.

I tried it again Sunday morning, to see if the breakthrough was for real.  This time around I didn’t even need to hold Kemba’s black leash for a second.  As soon as he saw it, my brilliant dog knew the drill, and started heading for French Hollow Road.  For another perfect run.

This, as it happened, wasn’t the only revelation of the weekend.  When I opened the cabinet to shut off the audio system before going out to run on Friday morning, I noticed a pair of Yaktrax I’d stashed away at the end of last season.  I’d totally forgotten I’d owned the things.  Might have come in handy on all those days this year when I almost killed myself walking, running, and hiking on ice.  Now, with just two weeks of winter left, I re-“discovered” them.  I used them on my running shoes.  Worked out fine.

Better late than never, I guess.

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