I used to be fast--not like Olympic gold medal fast, but able to win high school track races now and then fast. It isn’t a total loss. Adulthood has taught me to be fast at other things, like hitting the snooze button on the alarm, but when it comes to running, I don’t move as quickly as I once did.
That’s why it’s such a blow to my ego that my toy dog, my white, fluffy, bischon puppy, runs me into the ground. When I think we’re running fast, he runs easily to the end of the leash and turns to look back at me, mockingly, an unmistakable look of superiority on his little, white fluffy face. He then stops to pee on roughly five different bushes while still maintaining his lead, sprinting easily to the end of the leash again before I catch up with him.
When I slow down to an easier pace, he starts this little fast walk. He could be running; we’re moving fast enough to at least be running, but he starts the fast walk. It’s like when you’re jogging and someone starts fast walking beside you, keeping up with you easily, because they want to, well, humiliate you. That’s what my puppy does to me. I know it’s premeditated because he looks at me and wags his tail. The message in his eyes is clear.
There are times when I beat him. For instance, there was that time when we went walking in 85 degree weather. He had to lie down and rest in the shade. Ha! (Okay, okay, I gave him plenty of water and rushed him to my air conditioned car, but I beat him, see? Don’t miss the point of the story. No look of superiority that day, was there?)
Actually, that was the only time I beat him.
There are websites and books that list dogs that make good running partners, and bischon frises aren’t listed. I’ve looked--not even a small blurb about the fast walk.
At the dog park, he humiliates other, slower excuses for dogs. He darts past them repeatedly, sometimes circling them. He barks and taunts them, proclaiming his position as the fastest dog. When larger dogs enter the scene with legs much longer than his, he still pretends to be competitive. These dogs trot away casually, barely noticing him, while my poor puppy struggles to keep up, pretending he is fast enough to play with them. These moments give me secret satisfaction. Let him experience the humiliation of being effortlessly pummeled for a change.
When we come to large fields of grass, he perks up and suddenly starts running faster than ever. He darts around imaginary competitors and sprints to an invisible finish line. In these moments, it isn’t just me he is competing against, but he’s entered into a grander race filled with competitors that I cannot see. Periodically, he ignores his imaginary opponents and pauses to look back at me, tongue hanging out in satisfaction. He shows me, clearly, that though he beats me easily on the cement and asphalt, I wouldn’t even be close enough to eat his dust if we were on the grass. His contented puppy look of dominance only encourages me to avoid such grassy patches to keep him from having home field advantage. Wouldn’t Lance Armstrong do the same against his competitors?
He trains secretly without me. I’ve seen him. He sprints and sprints around the yard, leaping the retaining wall like a hurdle in the steeple chase. When he’s inside, he remains the focused athlete, running laps around our family room, jumping on and off the couch with each loop. It’s clear, then. He knows it’s a competition and works to maintain his ranking as number one.
When I try to train without him, he protests loudly! As soon as I slip into my running clothes, he becomes agitated, and when I begin to lace my running shoes, his cries become more urgent. He follows me from room to room, eventually stationing himself by the front door, pleading to be taken. Is this merely the typical behavior of a puppy anticipating a walk? I think not. The stakes are clearly higher.
I’d like to be a proud parent, but I’m tortured by the irony of it. I used to run faster than creatures that come up to the middle of my calf. And I might not be bothered by it if he were a greyhound, but a white fluffy little puppy with a mocking smile? It isn’t right.
That’s why it’s such a blow to my ego that my toy dog, my white, fluffy, bischon puppy, runs me into the ground. When I think we’re running fast, he runs easily to the end of the leash and turns to look back at me, mockingly, an unmistakable look of superiority on his little, white fluffy face. He then stops to pee on roughly five different bushes while still maintaining his lead, sprinting easily to the end of the leash again before I catch up with him.
When I slow down to an easier pace, he starts this little fast walk. He could be running; we’re moving fast enough to at least be running, but he starts the fast walk. It’s like when you’re jogging and someone starts fast walking beside you, keeping up with you easily, because they want to, well, humiliate you. That’s what my puppy does to me. I know it’s premeditated because he looks at me and wags his tail. The message in his eyes is clear.
There are times when I beat him. For instance, there was that time when we went walking in 85 degree weather. He had to lie down and rest in the shade. Ha! (Okay, okay, I gave him plenty of water and rushed him to my air conditioned car, but I beat him, see? Don’t miss the point of the story. No look of superiority that day, was there?)
Actually, that was the only time I beat him.
There are websites and books that list dogs that make good running partners, and bischon frises aren’t listed. I’ve looked--not even a small blurb about the fast walk.
At the dog park, he humiliates other, slower excuses for dogs. He darts past them repeatedly, sometimes circling them. He barks and taunts them, proclaiming his position as the fastest dog. When larger dogs enter the scene with legs much longer than his, he still pretends to be competitive. These dogs trot away casually, barely noticing him, while my poor puppy struggles to keep up, pretending he is fast enough to play with them. These moments give me secret satisfaction. Let him experience the humiliation of being effortlessly pummeled for a change.
When we come to large fields of grass, he perks up and suddenly starts running faster than ever. He darts around imaginary competitors and sprints to an invisible finish line. In these moments, it isn’t just me he is competing against, but he’s entered into a grander race filled with competitors that I cannot see. Periodically, he ignores his imaginary opponents and pauses to look back at me, tongue hanging out in satisfaction. He shows me, clearly, that though he beats me easily on the cement and asphalt, I wouldn’t even be close enough to eat his dust if we were on the grass. His contented puppy look of dominance only encourages me to avoid such grassy patches to keep him from having home field advantage. Wouldn’t Lance Armstrong do the same against his competitors?
He trains secretly without me. I’ve seen him. He sprints and sprints around the yard, leaping the retaining wall like a hurdle in the steeple chase. When he’s inside, he remains the focused athlete, running laps around our family room, jumping on and off the couch with each loop. It’s clear, then. He knows it’s a competition and works to maintain his ranking as number one.
When I try to train without him, he protests loudly! As soon as I slip into my running clothes, he becomes agitated, and when I begin to lace my running shoes, his cries become more urgent. He follows me from room to room, eventually stationing himself by the front door, pleading to be taken. Is this merely the typical behavior of a puppy anticipating a walk? I think not. The stakes are clearly higher.
I’d like to be a proud parent, but I’m tortured by the irony of it. I used to run faster than creatures that come up to the middle of my calf. And I might not be bothered by it if he were a greyhound, but a white fluffy little puppy with a mocking smile? It isn’t right.
