I’ve been running with my dog for years. She is a doberman rottweiler mix, smallish but big in heart. As a puppy, her name was Athena for a while. But she was a clown and snapped playfully with her milk teeth really fast, like an alligator, and laughed when I feigned horror. So she became Toga, far more likely to be dancing on tables and popping grapes than presiding eloquently over a temple feast. Her clownishness is magnetic.
Around three years old, she began to lose patches of black fur. It was gradual and not immediately noticeable. Then the remaining fur started to turn white. Her vet was clearly excited and perplexed at this turn of events, having never seen it before. She sent a skin biopsy to the lab, researched, and eventually determined that Toga is overall healthy, but has a very rare form of alopecia and vitiligo.
At seven, her belly began to change again. It went from naked mole rat smooth to sporting several long tufts of reddish brown. But she doesn’t realize she’s funny looking, and commands respect even as she tosses my socks in the air, grinning and hopping about the living room.
When I’m physically in shape, so is Toga. Knowing that she needs to excercise helps get me out the door, especially in winter. We have jogged through a suburban neighborhood in Idaho, followed Wyoming wild horse trails, wandered past stately mansions in Buckhead Atlanta, along industrial roads in Nebraska, through Tennessee Civil War battlefields, and braved rattlesnakes in Southern California.
This summer she turned eight and something isn’t quite right. She’s still funny and energetic – but not as much. She gets up from bed a little stiffly. Three times she has stopped in the middle of a run. The first time we were about four road miles into six when she dragged me over to a patch of shade and sprawled, belly down in the dirt. She refused to move. Mr. Running rescued us. The second time was at 2.5 miles. Mr. Running rescued us again.
The third time I stuck to a dirt path not far from home, but inaccessible by car, hoping the softer surface would make a difference. 2.3 miles in Toga found the only shade and plopped down again. Mind you, it isn’t especially hot – 75 maybe. We ran in Atlanta mugginess all last summer. This time I couldn’t call for help. I picked up her 50 pounds and carried her for a while, but she became suitably offended and wriggled down, dragging me back into a jog. We made it home together.
The vet said there’s a bit of inflammation in the soft tissue on Toga’s front leg, a rest will help. But it hasn’t. She could run tests and see if there is something more, but she seems reluctant that it would tell us much, and Toga appears healthy in every other way. I worry that she hurts.
So I’ve been running by myself. It feels wrong. Mr. Running says she howls while I’m gone. She’s never done that before.
It’s not like I run fast or very far. I use a 4 minute run/1 minute walk training app. She used to get home still ready to run, while I collapsed in a sweaty heap.
The average lifespan of a rottweiler is 9, dobie 10. Toga has accompanied me through three moves, one marriage, two job changes, and my kids leaving the nest. I wrestle with whether I should continue to let her run until she stops or keep her at home. Or just walk. She doesn’t understand walks.
Part of me is missing, running alone. I feel vulnerable. I research protective breeds best for running, occasionally look at ads for puppies in the area. Even though both our dogs are fine and we definitely don’t need another, I feel like my baby is getting ready to move on.