Short legs;kind eyes

Everyone should have a running partner.  Difficult to get one as forgiving as mine.

Nine years old, black, glossy, one wet nose.  Heck, you say, dog fanatic.  I bet she speaks to her hound as if it’s a real person – calls it ‘mummy’s little angel’ and feeds it organic chicken.

Actually I don’t like animals.  I like the thought of them, but they smell, and drool and demand. 

However, I do like dogs more than cats.  Through a canny move by my parents, I took possession of a life-sized Scottie dog pyjama case on my ninth birthday and that satiated a pet need for over 20 years.  Later, working from home, badgered by persistent kids, mid-life crisis eroding a ‘dog’s not for Christmas’ logic, I took possession of a black lab, and, by default, she introduced me to the concept of exercise.

We started out as urban running partners, pounding the pavements tentatively.  Puppy powered, I was pulled up concrete hills and wrapped around lampposts at her whim. She called the shots.  If she fancied adding an extra circuit to the session (hot on the trail of some canine stud), she would.  And if she needed to powder her nose, that would be another lap. It’s hard enough finding public toilet facilities for human runners, let alone remembering to pack poop bags – hardly to-die-for, accessorised running.

That first winter nearly killed the training schedule.  I tried to trade dog walking/running for domestic duties – the family were not accommodating.  Instead, they bought ‘us’ a flashing, luminescent dog collar and a torch I could wear on my head so that we’d be visible on dark nights.  It certainly worked, and on our first sporting of said fineries, a gang of teenagers took great delight emphasising just how much we did stand out – something along the lines of, “Oi Cyclops, your dog’s flashing, I’ll have to call a policeman”.

Then there were those pedestrians who tutted and muttered about the cruelty of ‘making’ a dog run.  Surely cruelty would be letting Larder Legs blob out at home? I reminded myself that my friend’s dog simply refused to run with her and voted by going on strike.  Just sat.   Gave her the same look that teenagers master.   My dog then must have innate athletic qualities.  I consoled myself that instead of a labrodoodle, I was fashioning a whippetlab. I gave up the gym membership and rose to the challenge.

I decided that rural running was needed – not least because it was becoming too embarrassing in town bumping into people that I would meet later in the day on professional terms.  I decided to drive out to woodland areas to stretch our legs.  Dog was keen, but hated driving.  Showed her disdain by regurgitating dog biscuits en route.  She also refused to jump up into the boot.  It’s one thing running cross country and leaving mud in your wake – another unceremoniously hoisting a muddy mutt – reeking eau de sheep manure and pond slime - into the back of the car.  Husband helpfully suggested building a car pet ramp.  I parried with a suggestion of marriage guidance. 

One house move later, safe in the confines of green welly countryside and rural pongs, we raise the running bar further.  Not for us some trendy after work running club, fartleking our way through leafy suburbs –instead, a daily work out in a playground of moor, bridle path, sheep field, hill fort and forestry commission arena.  No IPod needed; nature’s rhythm does its trick.  Occasional dead deer carcass may cause a detour, likewise rabbits, but it’s kinder than circuit training.

As a running partnership we have our foibles.  She likes to lead the way, but doesn’t know where she’s going.  She likes sheep, they don’t like her.  She likes to body slam large muddy puddles, but hates the post-run hose down.  She likes to go out fast, come back slow.  I like to run split intervals.  She likes to lie in wait and dethrone random mountain bikers, and her inner pantry causes stalking of lunching ramblers.  I’m just grateful to have a companion.

We’re seasoned runners, and we have indeed run from one season to another without noticing the onset of winter.  I find myself sounding increasingly defensive; “I’ll run a little slower for the dog”, “no, she’s not fat, she’s just got short legs - like me”, or, “I’m sure they’ve lowered that fence since last time, she’ll never get under... “

My training partner is slowing and I find myself fading with her. If I’m honest, she can’t keep up with me. Her head says she can; body just won’t co-operate.  Hollow victory after all these years of chasing her tail.   But we’re a team -my dodgy knee sympathises with her arthritic hip and, although my shared water bottle doesn’t seem to propel us as far as it used to, she’s welcome to its contents.  We’ve jogged down to a walk; she’s earned a forgiving walking partner, and I’m happy to oblige.  She’s licked me into shape quite nicely.