Running with Dog

Carol Bean and Squirt are farm dogs who live down the road--and I use the term "farm dogs" loosely as they don't have a working bone between them. Carol Bean is a boxer mix, with a body made like a granite boulder and accompanied by a fierce bark. This intimidating countenance belies the sugary sweet personality reflected in her soft brown eyes or in the soft mumbling growls and whines she uses to talk to us. Using her powerful front legs, she will pin down a small child, licking and nuzzling until her "victim" can wriggle out from underneath. Even then, she will proceed to softly talk to you, hoping you will let her do it again.

As you may guess, she is a hit with the kids.

But this story is not about the sweet Carol Bean. It is about Squirt.

Squirt is the physical opposite of Carol with a lean, light-as-a-feather build. Her long muzzle is used to lift hands, enticing their owners into petting her. Unlike Carol Bean, Squirt prefers a bit more distance between herself and all others. You may pet and snuggle her, but only for a little bit before she gently noses your hand away or inches toward her escape route. She is a sweet, quiet dog, rarely speaking unless she is caught up in the frenzied barking that Carol likes to do on occasion. All this means the kids crave her the way they crave off limits holiday candy, hugging and stroking her fur until she is loved into a corner, but I often remind them that Squirt needs her space.

Years ago, when I worked for The Farmer, it was just Squirt--or Squirty as I call her--who kept me company in the dusty office on the farm. It was during my time there that she and I would go for leisurely runs on the backroads of our village. Squirt is graceful and companionable. I had only to look at her and say "run?" and she would turn and squiggle with joy.

The run itself always started slow, warming up as she wandered the roadside, one eye on me while I fished around my iShuffle for the right tune, stretching my arms as I walked quickly. Sometimes, during this 5 minute start, she'd wander away up a small slope and circle a tree or disappear down an embankment to check the river, but she was never gone for more than a few moments - something I appreciated and voiced to her with a "good girl" while giving her silky ears a rub.

Then the run. My stiff muscles would squeak a bit with the effort, but as I broke into a jog, Squirt was right there beside me, keeping pace. We moved like this for awhile, enjoying the rhythm of each other, listening to music or sometimes the slap of my shoes on the dirt road. If this run was in the beginning of the season, I would usually slow down to a walk half way through, her cue to wander off again to explore, running back every couple of minutes to check my progress. Eventually, I would pick up my pace, searching again for that perfect rhythm and silently, without fanfare, she was beside me, as if she never left.

These runs would continue for an hour or so, keeping each other company before wandering back to the farm or going for a quick dip in the river. Then she would either crawl back under my desk or wander off to the greenhouses looking for The Farmer. I would either get back to work or head home, back to my family and the familiarity of humans.

Years later, Squirt and I do not run together as often as we did. I no longer work at the farm, our daily life has changed and our bodies too (arthritis for her, achy knees for me), but sometimes in the spring, when the green around us is still new and the running river is cold and full, I'll go looking for Squirt in the dusty farm office.

With the evening light easing away the cold that still lingers from the snowy winter, we begin with stiff legs that gradually loosen and fall back into the rhythm of the run as if we never stopped.