The Best Part of My Day

 

Outside the front door:  Scout is ready to go.

It usually takes an hour or less.  I do it nearly every day, and sometimes my wife comes along if she’s home.  And I find that not only do I feel better doing it, I feel better afterwards.

I’m talking about walking my dog.

My dog is an 8-year old Catahoula Leopard Hound named Scout.  Scout is also my running partner, and has what I like to think is an impressive amount of mileage on him.

This winter has been the wintriest I’ve experienced since I moved to Boise in 2007, with lots of snow and subfreezing temps for a month straight.  For him, these winter days consist of laying on a bed or couch and sleeping for much of the day.  In fact, as I write this I can see Scout twitching in his dreams under a net of covers he pulled off the back of the couch.  It’s hard for a thin-blooded Southerner in this cold climate.

Because of the inactivity, the Daily Walk is the highlight of his day, and often mine.  It never fails to amaze me how excited he gets when he hears the jingle of his collar or the sight of me picking up his leash.  I have to smile when I see him impatiently waiting by the door while I put on my jacket and pull on my boots.

And off we go into the neighborhood.  The street and most of the sidewalks are frozen, which makes for tricky walking.  With four legs and claws, Scout has no issues slipping and falling.

It still is a bit strange for me to walk with just one dog—until last summer my daily walks had been with two.  This past August we had to put our older dog, Shoban, to sleep.  He was 13, and a variety of maladies had reached the point where he was no longer comfortable.

Shoban looking serious at the Columbia River Gorge.

Shoban always seems to be on a mission when we headed out the door.  I don’t know if it was his eagerness to pee on everything or just sheer exuberance, but even at 13, he pulled a lot.  In fact, I think the Daily Walk was the one thing that kept him spry those last few years.  I think of him every time we walk out the door.

Scout is a good walker:  he stays by my left side and doesn’t pull, except when he sees other dogs or people who might give him treats.  He is people-oriented, and enjoys the praise I give him when he behaves himself.  He’s developed quite the white beard this past year, which fools people into thinking he’s old.  He’s not, and he certainly doesn’t act like it.

Though he tends to sleep more these days, his energy level is still high.  He still runs circles around me when it’s not icy, and he has lately taken to playing tug-of-war in the evenings.   I’ll never forget a moment from three years ago, after a 14-miler run in the Boise Foothills with 5000 feet of elevation gain and loss.  I was beat-up, having run farther than I ever had in my life, but when we got home he ran from the car into the house.  I’ll never forget that.  I limped.

Our walks have not been without danger.  Twice in just the past year, unleashed dogs have attacked us on our walks.  One necessitated a trip to the vet for stitches (for Scout).  But no matter, we go anyway.

Though the walking is slippery, my neighborhood looks beautiful in the snow.  One of our walking routes takes us to a magnificent view of the city and the mountains beyond.  I’ll stop and take it in, while Scout smells around for other furry friends who have been there.

Scout humors me when I look for birds, and I humor him when he stops to pee for the tenth time.  I’ll point out a Merlin and he’ll look at me as if he’s thinking:  “Cool bird.  Let’s keep on going.”

These walks are a great idea time for me.  I even bring a small notebook and pen with me in case I think of a story or blog post I can write (you can guess where I came up with this one).  Scout is used to it, and knows to stop when I pull the notebook out of my back pocket.

Once we’re home again, Scout will sit proudly in front of the bookshelf that has the treat jar and wait to be rewarded.  Then he’ll slink off to the couch or his bed for a quick nap before his next adventure.

Well, he just woke up from his nap.  He is stalking around the living room, looking alternately at me and then my boots.  I suppose I know what time it is.

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!