Three times a day, our dog takes me outside for obvious reasons. In addition to training me about hygiene, she is working on my vocabulary.
One day, I get this idea to start jogging. I don’t know why. I never jogged as a young man. Preferred the bicycle. What the hell. I’ve got new batteries in the pacemaker, let’s give it a go. This will surely jazz up my medical charts.
My first attempts were pathetic. Not even ten yards. Poof. Honey, can you come get me. My legs were stiff. I couldn’t even skip-jump a curb. The results of allowing myself to whine on the couch five years following too many surgeries. Bad idea.
Gradually, my stamina is returning. I can now run fifty yards. Three times a day. Watch for me in your neighborhood. The old guy holding the plastic bag as far from his body as he can. Accompanied by a mini Dachshund with a big grin. Got the image?
What the hell, it amuses the dog -- and the neighbors -- and keeps my heart pumping.
Perhaps I should correct my over-statement. Perhaps “jog” is too strong a word to describe this new action. It’s more like a lope. You know, like the handlers in the Westminister Dog Show.
The Mystery Woman thinks we’re going to win Best in Show.