Finding My Running Partner, the Rescue Dog

Just outside the front doors of the Idaho Humane Society on February 15, 2009.

I can’t remember what prompted me to look at the Idaho Humane Society’s website on Valentine’s Day 2009, but I did.  Barely even filling the frame of the thumbnail photo was the scared face of a “Catahoula Leopard Dog, 5 months old”.  I had no idea what a Catahoula was or if it was even a real breed of dog.

A few minutes of online research answered that question that quickly.  Catahoulas sounded tough, stubborn, and high-energy, adjectives I like to think that apply to me, too.  And he was a Southerner by blood:  Catahoulas originated in Louisiana, and in fact, are the State Dog.  Something inside me said I couldn’t let a fellow Southerner sit in doggy jail, looking so sad and scared.

Without consulting my wife, I went to visit him at the Humane Society.  I think I already knew that I was going to adopt him, but wanted to make sure there wasn’t too much leopard in this hound.

When I first saw him, I was struck by how small he was:  a skinny 25 lbs.  I could fit my hands around his waist.  He was obviously in distress, as most dogs are in those situations.  One exception to that was the Bulldog who shared the kennel with him, who seemed quite content to sit in the corner when I took him out for a walk.

I should say “tried”.  He immediately bolted when I opened the door and I had to chase him through the facility before getting the leash on him.  Once together, we walked into the yard on that sunny Valentine’s Day.  He was pulling with all his might to get out there.
We went into a smaller fenced-off area so I could take off his leash, and he started zooming around like a rocket.  He also was eating the bark that covered the ground.  With his ribs clearly visible through his thin fur, I could understand why he was trying to eat everything in sight.

Honestly, I was a bit overwhelmed.  I had never had a puppy before, so the many challenges of training seemed daunting.  I let him thrash around for a few more minutes before I took him back inside.  When I tried to return him to his kennel, he once again bolted by sliding through my legs.  Someone nearby said I ought to name him “Houdini”, which certainly seemed apt.

I figured I’d walk another dog I’d noticed on the way in, for comparison.  It was a young yellow lab, and it repeatedly jumped up at my face.  It was cute enough, for sure, but not quite as unique as the Catahoula.  I returned it to it’s kennel and got the Catahoula again.

We went outside again and he pulled just as hard as before.  I let him into the off-leash area and figured it was finally time to call my wife at work.  We already had a dog, a six year-old Pointer/Lab mix who was incredibly sweet, so it really surprised my wife when I told her what I was doing.  I told her to come over and meet him, and if she liked him, we’d adopt him.  Simple as that, right?

My wife was clearly taken with the dog when she arrived.  But, being a more rational person than I, reminded me what a big step this would be.  Because I’m typically gone on wildfires much of the summer, she would be the primary caretaker for him.  Because it was closing time at the Humane Society, we decided to think more about it that evening.

I reluctantly took him back to his kennel and put him inside.  It was a very sad moment.  He needed to get out of there.

Our conversation about adopting him quickly turned from “IF we adopt him” to “WHEN we adopt him”.  He’d won his first battle with us, and he wasn’t even there.

The next morning we arrived at the Humane Society before they opened.  I had a slight fear that someone else may try to get him before us, so I made sure we were the first ones through the door that morning.  It was Sunday, February 15th, 2009.

My wife did not want to go back to the kennel room, as it was too heart-breaking a sight for her.  When I appeared in front of the Catahoula’s kennel, he was cuddled up against the belly of his kennel mate, the Bulldog.  He looked so tiny.  But when we made eye contact, he sensed that I was there for him. I had no problem getting him to come with me.  He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

As we posed for pictures out front a young couple walked by and suddenly stopped.  “Is that the Catahoula?” they asked.  “Yes,” I told them, unable to suppress the smile breaking on my face.  And he’s ours! I wanted to add, but did so diplomatically.

Shoban with his new little brother Scout.  Shoban doesn’t look too thrilled .

After taking him home, it was clear that he needed daily exercise to dissipate the immense store of energy he possessed.  We soon began a regimen of biking in the morning (during which he would mostly pull me for several miles) and a run in the afternoon.  Some days that was enough to tire him out.  He soon turned from the scared puppy to the mischievous one.

Sunning in the backyard about two months after we adopted him.

Those runs quickly became one of the best parts of my day.  I looked forward to every time we’d step out that front door, because he was always so enthusiastic.  For the first time in 31 years, I was enjoying running.  I didn’t think that was possible before.

I haven’t found his wall yet running.  Two years ago we did a long run in the Boise Foothills, over 14 miles and 5000 feet of elevation change.  He napped on the short drive back to the house, and when I opened the car door to let him out, he ran to front door.  I limped.  I’ll never forget that.

Now, 7 years and who knows how many miles running together (I’d guess upwards of 1000), we’re still running strong.  Probably stronger than ever.

Just because we’re growing older doesn’t mean we have to grow weaker.

He really is the best running partner.  He never complains.  He’s always excited.  He likes to play tag when we’re horsing around.  He loves high-marking on the cutbanks where the mountain bikes ride.

I’m so lucky to have him as my running partner.  We all should be so lucky.

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If you enjoyed reading this, please consider adopting a dog or donating to your local Humane Society!