I’ve been running with Thurber (at right), who turns three
in June, since he was little more than a pup. It’s not that Thurber has come to
gather up his leash in his mouth and follow me around the house. He doesn’t
show that type of enthusiasm. Rather, when he sees me in my running gear, and I
say, “C’mon, Thurb! C’mon! Are you up for a run?” You know what? He always is.
Winter or spring, fall or summer. He’s ready to go. We’re a
pretty good fit, Thurb and I. He pours on the after-burners in the beginning,
and it is all I can do to keep him on leash. (If you’re imagining a sped-up
version of the Cleese Walk as I struggle to stay with him, you’re not off the
mark.) Off-road in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, where we run, except for the occasional manic lunge after an unsuspecting squirrel
(which, at his best, he manages to chase to a tree, which the rodent scales,
and Thurb runs to its base where he leaps a foot off the ground), he will settle into a trot alongside
me in a way that makes me think of the standardbred sulkies at the Hanover
Raceway back home in Ontario.
He’s such a creature of habit that he knows our route, slows
to make our turns, looks up to me as if to say something, but never anything
critical – or even complimentary. Never does he look at me in a way that I
think I may if the paw were on the other foot that says, “Is that the best you
can do?”
If anything, his look is one of quiet assessment. As if to
say that it is surprising enough that this beast following me can run as well as that on only two
legs. Which during marathon training is a comfort, I
can tell you.
Next: Running for Your Life: The Real “Frankenstein”
