January 24, 2010

Every time I prepare myself for my daily gallop through the concrete meadows, my wife facetiously asks if I would like to take our trusty canine with me. I shake my lank-haired mane, using the nuchal ligament to pull my equine head back, and stamp my right hoof twice, "No." She gently pats my withers, takes the bit from my mouth, slaps me on the rump, and away I go, with a whinny, up the hill.

You see, I am a thoroughbred. My legs were made for running. They are as long as one of my worst sentences. I defeat gravity one stride at a time. The dog, Blackie, is an earth-bound breed, a Scottish Terrier. His legs were made for firm and steady contact with the soil. His ancestors rooted rodents from their burrows, and shook them to death. They didn't run; they made other animals run. I read all of that in a little Scottie history book I bought at Pet Barn. I certainly haven't seen our dog exhibit any of those behaviors.

True, at thirteen, he can't be expected to zip around like he did when he was a puppy. But, c'mon, forget about voles, he sometimes has trouble rooting out his food dish. It took so long for him to crap the other day, it was yesterday by the time he was finished. I completed a New York Times Sunday crossword, and then composed another. This is not a running dog; he's barely a walking dog. He would have to speed up to stop. It's not that he's crippled, he has just seen everything over there, and he's not all that interested in it.

So, he sleeps while I run, and when I come home, he remains in the sleeping position. I stretch-he sleeps. I shower-the running water stirs his scruffy snout, but he does not rise. He sleeps while we work, dreaming of a nap he took last week. I got in six miles; he got forty thousand winks.

Sometimes I envy him. He agrees that I should.

Thanks for humoring me.