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.