Posts written entirely while running.
I am a runner – this is usually by choice but occasionally I would rather chew on the flattened frog carcass laying left of my driveway than lace up my Nikes for a jog, at which times Mr. PB gives me the judgiest looks imaginable and I begrudgingly go anyway. It is on these jogs that I tend to come up with the best ideas for posts. So if you ever see a small blonde with a large wolf standing on the sidewalk typing on her phone, that’s me, making notes, because much like dreams, by the time I swish back through the door at the end of 3.8 miles, the entire post I’ve written in my head has largely evaporated. And that just won’t do.
Falling Back. Everyone seems to be posting about Falling back. Well sufferin’ succotash I feel left out! So I’m going to tell y’all what I love about falling back, aside from the delightfully obvious extra hour of cuddle-under-a-blanket time.
Falling back means that my runs are accosted by less nincompoopery (gosh golly darn I thought I made that one up but curiously, my spell check didn’t stab it; when the bleeding red line I expected didn’t show up I asked The Google and would ya lookie there, it’s in the Urban Dictionary – nincompoopery, how do ya like that).
Nincompoops. My neighborhood’s got gaggles of ’em. Every day I rush home attempting to beat both the clock and those who seek to harrow. If I make it out the door by 5, I’m usually ok, but wait until 5:30… Oh bother.
Today I’d like to call out one lady in particular. She wears scrubs and is the proud owner of two teacup Yorkies, who she puts into teeny tiny harnesses and parades down the street. Daily. Now, I got nothin’ against Yorkies. But for the love of pea pod porridge, do they really need to GO FOR A WALK?
Like fer serious.
I have two dachshund friends. Their legs are about even with my pinky where length is concerned. I try to strap them into their harnesses and walk them, their stamina unfailingly expends about 5 houses into our suburban journey. That aside, my policy against walking them is borne of basic common courtesy – because about 2 houses into our suburban journey Toast sees a leaf blow by, or Dixie senses the aura of an airborne molecule, and all holy hell breaks loose. I can’t even get into the horror of witnessing DUN DUN DUN… ANOTHER DOG.
The insanity. The madness. These two make Cujo look like a mannerly service Labrador. It’s epic. And not the good kind. They hear so much as the jingling of a tag, and their shit, you guys, it’s immediately lost. A definitive losing of the shit is upon us in a flash, and I’m fighting and dragging these two diminutive wieners, at times on their backs and sides as they wriggle and snap and – you guessed it – lose their shit in the general direction of the innocent interloper.
Ergo, my Yorkie-having neighbor, I refrain as a general rule from taking my quivering, snarling balls of canine terror for absurdly unnecessary walks, and you, Madam, should consider adopting a similar policy. You see, I like to run. My husky likes to run alongside me. He, unlike the dachshunds and your teeny tiny purse toppers, actually does need to go for walks. And runs. He really could do with a ten mile run but Mommy’s stamina starts to ebb around 4 miles.
Woe is him.
However, it is decidedly difficult to take him for a run when the neighborhood becomes a virtual obstacle course through which I must maneuver around you and your Yorkie and assorted other do-not-need-to-be-walked-dog-having contemporaries. When your Yorkies commence having two separate but very equal strokes 4 feet from my wolf’s face, well, he then begins to lose his own shit. To be clear, he’s a very well mannered wolf. If the inspiration struck him he could easily break my grip on his leash and lap those two up like soft, fluffy Milk Bones.
And don’t even get me started on that one time you “accidentally” let one off its leash and ambled on after it at a lethargic pace, meanwhile it’s charging down Dakota and displaying a startling lack of self preservation instinct, and I’m running backwards attempting to save it from becoming a wolf snack.
“PB, wasn’t this post supposed to be about Falling back or something?”
Yes, yes, I’m getting there. SO, falling back. I love falling back because the nincompoops don’t seem to come out now. Perhaps they’re afraid of the dark. Maybe they read my ghost post. By 5:30 the streets are but an empty playground upon which a girl and her dog may run like the wind, nary a rude Yorkie or poorly trained human in sight. And that’s a good thing. I can’t skip running, cause you know, Ho Hos. Yet it was becoming less the treat and more the chore.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I love Falling back.
à tout à l’heure, or, tootle loo for you English types,