Buster is almost 16 years old. He is a Border Collie, though a large one, so maybe there is something else in there too. Once I met a Scottish woman at the beach and she said she has seen working dogs his size in her homeland. It doesn't matter. He has the stance. The smarts. The obsession.
His obsession is/was rolling boulders (backwards, with his front paws, for as long and as far as he could, with a happy yelping bark of delight the entire time) and running. Also very large sticks, sometimes actually they were small trees that had fallen, and as he seemed to believe I have the strength of Atlas, he would drag said tree to me, expecting me to throw it for him to fetch. And he could outrun every dog on the beach to get balls, much to the chagrin of their owners who thought, like parents do these days (at least in Northern California), that all dogs should have an equal chance to shine.
Buster could tell when I was upstairs putting on my running clothes. Somehow he discerned putting on of running clothes from all other outfits. Did he smell the woods and beach on my shoes as I lifted them from the closet? Could he sense my own excitement at preparing for the run?
Buster is now in hospice. This is how I think of it, because he cannot hear. He can barely see. He can hobble to the door and maybe make it outside to do his business. A walk around the house leaves him exhausted. And he gets a special diet that leaves the other dogs quite jealous: rice, ground beef, chicken broth...really, whatever tickles his doggy fancy.
Buster is the only truly cool dog in our house.
Which brings me to the poodles.
MilesNow technically, one is a standard poodle and the other a Goldendoodle. Disclaimer: I take full responsibility for the choice to bring a designer dog into my home ('doodle). Designer dogs are especially designed to be neurotic. In terms of the standard poodle, I can blame those I love that own/owned poodles. They know whom they are.
Today, I ran a workout I have named "easy run with neurotic poodles".
Miles was first. He is terrified of surprises. In his world, that encompasses the following:
-an unexpected breeze
-the wind blowing a leaf in our path
-a neighbor walking by
-and don't even get me started on the unexpected charge of the chihuahuas
Zoe came next. Normally, the only thing that motivates her to go outside and exercise is the off chance of getting to eat some horse shit. To her credit, she is not easily surprised. But she loves horse shit so much that she will do what one friend has dubbed "the breastroke" to get to it. I have learned that having a supply of hotdogs or cheese in my pocket will decrease her desire for the golden horse deposits. She is the spazziest being I have ever met.
Both of them look at me like I am insane for running. Yes, they will do it, but Miles soon starts lagging behind and acting like he might mess up his curls if we go any faster, clearly a very distresing prospect for someone with his fine looks. Zoe will run if there is some good horse shit ahead, but otherwise she really does not see the point.
Ah, Buster. If only. Despite his age, his senility, his weakened limbs and impinged spinal cord, he still perks his ears when I get ready to run. He looks at me with those eyes, as if to say "There is something I remember about you and me and it is good."
Then he leans up against me. And my heart melts.
In my defense:
Those poodles are dang cute.
Also, they make me laugh every day. Not in a Hallmark sort of way. A true belly laugh. They are hilarious, raunchy and weird. I love them.
Just wish we could have a run once in awhile with Buster-style athleticism, grace and bliss.
And without the neuroses.