September 2015

Tongue out, looking forward: Mason, my best running dog.

Penultimate day of #BRFweek, a weeklong tribute to Best Running Friends: forces that push us farther than we thought we could go. As we celebrate all week long on our Facebook page, celebrate your BRF with our special deal in the Mother Runner Store: buy any $25 lifestyle tee, get one for $10 (one for you, one for your BRF). Use code BRF10 at checkout.

To checkout all the happenings of #BRFweek, head here. And then read about Dimity and Mason, her best running dog. (She wants to make it clear, though, that she does have plenty of best running friends too. She’s a crazy dog lady with lots of #BRFs. Ok, onward.)

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to a dog with whom to run. When I lived a dogless existence in New York City, I had visions of a four-legged BRF that would drool when he saw me grab my shoes, accompany me on every run, patiently trotting by my side so that the leash was slack.

Dharma, the first dog my husband and I owned as an adults, was not a runner. Not a runner on a leash, anyway; our first mile together, a total yank-fest on my part, taught me that lesson quickly. On the trail, off a leash, she’d run for as long as she’d deem necessary, and then plop herself in the middle of the path to let me know we were officially halfway. No coaxing from my end—treats, running ahead so she’d feel like she had to chase me, definitely no leash—would get her to go in a forward direction. Turning around and heading home was our only choice. (And yes, she’d run on the way back to the car. Bitch.)

Jessie, our next dog, would run on a leash. Dharma, afraid of missing out on action and affection, would come along too. But two bigger dogs was a lot for accident-prone me to handle, so I only took them out a handful of times, including my wrist-breaking adventure on an icy winter trail. (That was a fun one.) Then Dharma got old and even more stubborn, Jessie went blind, and my running with dogs was over.

Until we got Mason, a chocolate lab/Weimaraner mix, about three years ago.

“I think he’ll be a good fit for your active family,” said the adoption coordinator, after we auditioned a sweet but super shy, quiet dog over a weekend. That dog was deemed not a good fit for our loud family. Mason bounded in, and about sixty seconds after being in our backyard, had a squirrel in his mouth. We all yelled, he dropped it, and the squirrel hobbled away to die a sad, half-paralyzed death. We kept him anyway.

About one year old and fully grown to 85 or so pounds and long legs, he was ready to run. And within a week of becoming our newest family member, he and I headed out.

I didn’t run with him, though. I waterskied behind him. Truly: both hands gripping the leash, arms straight in front of me, my weight shifted back so I could slow his momentum. By the time we clocked a quarter of a mile, he was full-on, tongue-out panting. The effort—and the mother runner weight he was hauling around—didn’t faze him though. It was like he was the only dog invited to a squirrels-only party, and the doors were closing momentarily. He.had.to.get.there.

A recent pawsie/shoefie. (He requested we take it.)

I think we ran about three miles, and the only thought I could muster was, “Just don’t trip, Dimity,” because the sidewalks were ladden with cracks and lips. All my splits were under 9-minute-miles, which is blazing for me.

I finally got my dog runner.

And the following morning, my shoulders were so sore, I couldn’t raise my arms to shampoo my hair.

About every two weeks, I’d try again. I finally progressed to one hand on the leash, unless he spied a rabbit, a squirrel, or—heaven forbid—a fox. Then I was back behind the Mason boat, hanging on for dear life. A couple of times when I swear he had 120-horsepower engine under his brown fur, I released and prayed the rodent was swift and/or clever enough to avoid the oncoming danger. (Save that first squirrel, no animals have ever been harmed by Mason.)

We never fell into that BRF rhythm. He was always game to go, but I really had to be up for the challenge.

JOY. (I was on snowshoes, by the way, for this romp.)

Then I took him on a trail run, and within seconds, we found our groove. On trails,with no leash to bog either of us down, he sprints and saunters and stops to smell, and I maintain my steady pace. I cover 4 miles, he cover 8 in the same time period. I never tire of watching his ears flap as he sprints away from me, and continuously marvel at the air under his paws when he comes back to tell me what he just saw around that corner. (Yep, we talk to each other. Or I talk for him. Don’t judge; it works for us.) Towards the end of a run, he finally stops doing circles around me, slows down and stays close.

On the ride home, I open the back car window for him and we both settle into a place of exhausted joy.

Unfortunately, we can only hit those no-leash-required trails every two months if we’re lucky.

But recently things have gotten better on the road. Thanks to Mason’s counter- and cupboard-raiding skills (six bagels at a time, a stick of butter in one sitting), he’s put on a few pounds. Combine his widening girth with the fact that he’ll be four this winter (28 in human years) and we’re in a much better place. A place of compromise. Before we go, I mentally put on my faster legs and get ready for tempo effort. Meanwhile, he loses most of his horsepower after mile, actually puts some slack in his leash, and no longer darts after squirrels if I can huff out a,”No!”

No matter how far we run—I think our max is 6.5 miles—the post-run routine is always the same. He slurps water, then flops down on the tile floor, panting. Like I’ve really done it to him this time; he’s completely worn out. I head upstairs shower and by the time I’m changed and back downstairs, he’s up with a tennis ball in his mouth, ready for a game of fetch.

He may dislocate my shoulders, he may force me into heart rate zones I’d rather not enter, he may fuel on rabbits instead of Vanilla GU, but like any great BRF, he’s always, always game to run. Even if it’s a solo speedwork session in the backyard.

Do you run with your dog? Harder or easier than running with Mason?