The Dog Speaks

Miss Daisy comes home from work. She lets me out the front door and I can see it's a simply beautiful day. This makes me happy! I love to be outside! Wait! What's that? I see Miss Daisy putting on those green running shoes at the back door. Yipee! That means we're going for a walk ... highly unusual at this time of the day. Since Jim's not home yet, I guess there's time to get a nice leisurely stroll in before dinner.

Love walks! Love walks! Love walks!

Remember Miss Daisy when I was a puppy and we lived in that little house in town? We'd traipse all over those sidewalks! We had a two-mile route that was great! There was that loud barking fat Beagle on Bond Place. And the Black Labs that would hurl themselves at the picture window on Arch Street! And all those people we'd meet near Franklin Middle School? They'd stop you and admire me, asking, "What kind of dog is that? She's so pretty!"

And you'd always say, "She's a mutt," killing my mojo.

And remember when you had your hysterectomy six years ago? You were kind of slow for the first couple of weeks. But you quickly realized that the more you walked, the better you felt. So during that six-week recovery time, we put on a LOT of miles, didn't we? Some days we'd go four miles in the morning and four miles in the afternoon. (Because, let's face it. Daytime TV sucks and you really were looking for ANY excuse to not do that horrid scrapbook project for Kati's graduation, right?)

And then we moved to the country and I had room to rove. I could run around outside. But you stopped taking me on walks. You stopped walking, actually. Until recently, that is. When you picked it back up, I accompanied you downstairs every morning to your treadmill. I enjoyed sniffing around the stuff in the basement as you sweat for an hour. That was a pretty good gig for me.

But I need to tell you something.

Tonight when you came home and let me out, I was happy to see you putting on running shoes. I was enthusiastic about going for a nice afternoon walk. I'm a dog, after all. Enthusiastic is my middle name.

We walked up the hill. Great. I'm out in front, pulling you a little, in the way I like to.

And then you wrecked it. You started to run. You ran for about a mile before you even noticed I was falling behind and breathing hard.

Did you forget I'm 10 years old? Ten. That's 70 in people years, you heartless wench. I'm 70 freaking years old and you're dragging me around on a leash. You know I WANT to run. You know I want to kick it in gear and go.

But I'd like to see you at 70 hoofing it around the neighborhood! What's the matter with you?

After about a mile, you did back off on the run and walk a little, patronizing me with:

"What's the matter old girl ?" (OLD GIRL? Really? Not nice.)

"I'll slow down and let you catch your breath." (Gee, thanks. I'm 70 for cry-eye! Thanks for being so kind, you snot.)

"Think you can make it home? It's only another mile and a half. I can't carry you!" (Shut the hell up now. I'll get there under my own power.)

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm happy you're exercising and everything. I mean, really, it's good. But couldn't you have had this idea five years ago when I was only 35?

I would have been the best pace car ever.