Running with a Mini-Dachshund

Theodore has a fuse as short as his dachshund legs. When he runs, he doesn't mess around. If I didn't have a leash on him, he'd take off down the sidewalk like a rocket, his sharp nose hissing as it cut the air. But he does wear a leash, so instead, I hear his even breath as his body curls and uncurls with each surging step. Even with the mass of my body holding us back, he cuts nearly a minute off my time in the first mile.

I keep the leash taut and follow him. I can't keep up, but I don't want to gag him, either. Theodore won't keep up the pace much longer than a mile. Every time he sees a dog, he speeds up. Life, for him, is a race he has to win. Sure, his legs are short, but man, does he have a spine.

I would like to have a running companion, rather than a competitor. Before we're done, he'll tire and I'll have to walk with him. If he'd just slow down a little at the start, he'd have the stamina to finish strong. But I can't convince Theodore of that.

We speed up to pass an old Lab who's just out for a tinkle. As we turn the corner the road stretches out ahead of us without a dog in sight. Theodore slows down. I slow with him, not quite to walking. The zipper on my ankle passes Theodore's red collar and he's off again. He darts forward until his tail waves at me.

I don't speed up. No need to push him. We run for a while. He falls in step with me until I pass the red boundary, at which point he always runs ahead. Occasionally, he glances back at me and I wonder what the looks mean. I'd like to think he's saying, "Thanks for bringing me. This is fun!" But I suspect his look means, "Is that all you have, human?"

A car passes us and Theodore tries to keep up with it until it turns the corner at the end of the block. Almost immediately, he sees a squirrel and puts on a furious burst of speed. The squirrel climbs a tree. Theodore looks for it, but can't figure where it went. We continue on our way. He seems calm. I'm a little embarrassed to be seen with him if he doesn't know squirrels can climb. But I should be glad. I'm not sure what I would do if Theodore decided to chase a squirrel up a tree.

In a few blocks, Theodore stops running. I'm happy with it. He's run nearly three miles. Pretty good for a jogging newbie. I tell him what a good job he's done. Instead of turning toward home, I figure we can walk the rest of the route. In a block or two, though, he starts to run again. Not a dog or squirrel in sight. No cars passing. He just decides to run, so I follow. After all, I do this run three times a week.

Our pace is slow. The leash is never taut, so I keep the end bundled in my hand. I don't want him to trip on it. My pant leg passes his collar. Five steps, six, he lets me keep the position. Then he pulls in front of me. I let him pass, but don't slow down. He does slow down, though. My shin brushes the tip of his tail and he goes off like I lit his fuse. Run, run, run. But he's tired now. He doesn't keep up the pace.

We turn toward home. I stay behind the line of his collar. At our street, I pull him to a walk. "Let's cool down."

He walks ahead of me with his head high and a bounce in his step. The meaning is clear. "You stopped running. I win."

We cross into our own yard. Theodore slows down so his collar is even with the zipper at my ankle. We walk side by side down the driveway.

Running In the Street with a Dog

I've been running with a friend three times a week for more than a decade, but our schedules don't allow for it anymore. My three dogs take turns playing surrogate, so I won't have to run alone. This blog post sets down for posterity our progress. First up: Ollie, the Monday partner.

On the sidewalk, Ollie poops approximately three blocks from my home, too far away from my own garbage cans to deposit the poop right at the beginning. So, I run with the poopy bag swinging from my wrist, wafting odor like incense at a religious parade.

My passion is running. Ollie's passion is smelling pee. I don't even notice the spots other dogs have left behind, so it always surprises me when he darts across the front of my running feet to sniff a fencepost, and then back the other way to press his nose against a tree. I could think of it as low hurdles, or even an uneven game of jump rope, but I don't. I think he's trying to kill me.

My human buddy never once did this. The closest she came was to occasionally bump my elbow with her own. So, Ollie and I run in the street, where there are no fence posts or trees. Ollie doesn't sniff anything. He runs behind me in a dejected manner, but we're both a lot safer.

I get that most drivers don't like runners in the street. I get it. They don't want to hit me with their car. I don't want them to hit me with their car, either. But, seriously, I trust them not to dart across the lane a lot more than I trust Ollie.

Ollie drags to such a slow rate that I stop running and walk alongside him. He's almost twelve now, so he might not have the stamina to run for long. Ollie notices I've stopped and slows down even more. He can't be that tired. In a few minutes, I take off running again and he speeds up alongside me. Still, he keeps the leash taut as he hangs back.

I plod along, hoping he'll get in better shape if we keep doing this. Halfway home, another dog walks past on the sidewalk. Like a much younger dog, Ollie slips out of his collar and runs to play. Well, that won't fly. I slip him back into his collar. "Don't try to tell my you're too tired to run. Come on."

I'm not sure Ollie is smart enough to fake fatigue. If he was faking, I'm pretty sure he doesn't realize he's been busted. He creeps alongside me, and I wonder what, if anything, is going on in his mind. He's not much of a conversationalist.

Then I notice the poopy bag is no longer swinging. Not that I notice it's holding still. I notice it's gone. Somewhere on our four-mile run, I've lost it. A truly stellar person would go back looking for it, but I don't. Ollie is pretending to be short on energy and I'm short on patience. Hopefully, I'll find it Wednesday.