Not My Dog

Got on my (ridiculously short) athletic pants and my new sneakers again last night, after a week and a half off. Feeling quite a bit better, I says to myself. Get out there.

Things I had forgotten, but won’t, again:

1) Never drink a lot of water, shortly before going out the door.

2) If it feels a bit breezy as you head out, and the sun is on its downward track–it’s probably not going to get any warmer. Probably.

3) The “Not My Dog” sign I’ve been meaning to make. I figure I can wear it around my neck–maybe sandwich board style, so that fuming motorists in both directions will not be tempted to run me off the road rather than or along with the neighborhood canines who decide to accompany me the entire way. My fellow trotter last night never strayed far from my side unless a car was coming. At that point, the cunning little mutt would study the velocity of the vehicle and the intelligence in the eyes of its driver, and if he judged (and he always judged correctly) that the driver was an alert, cautious type, he’d trot out into the middle of the road. He’d never look directly at the driver at this point. He’d feign intense interest in something off on the horizon, and then he’d stand there, looking everywhere but at the now stopped car and the frustrated driver–who usually looked at me and threw their hands up in the air like, “What is your problem lady? Get your dog out of the road!”

I thought only three year olds acted like that…


8 responses to “Not My Dog

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