A winter run

I never got into treadmills. They are as boring as talking to the postmaster about retirement. I am an outdoor guy so, bad knees padded, shoes on, dog on the well-chewed leash, it is off to one of Lincoln's great bike trails. (I might add it is handily installed right behind my house.)

After the two mandatory stops for pooch maintenance, it's time for the run. Now mind you, I am kind of an old guy so let's not be thinking maraton here. Plus, I hate the cold and I have a small pooch out in front of me galloping along as if he was free or something.

I follow a running program from Fit for Life. 2 minute walk. 1 minute slow jog. 1 minute faster jog. 1 minute fast jog. Repeat four times plus a really fast run at the end and a cool-down. Cool down? Dude, it's winter in Nebraska. We don't need cool downs for crying out loud.

I was into the second repeat when it happened. The usually healing Buc, running at my pace to my right, spotted a rabbit running in the ditch to my left just as my left foot was coming down for the next step. No way I could stop without pulling every muscle from my butt to my toes so my tennie raked the poor pooch's foot and landed on his toes. You can't imagine the howl. I am sure the nearby neighbors were speed dialing the Humane Society to report running puppy abuse.

There he stoop in the snow, paw up, nose and ears down, looking up at me through the top of his eyes, asking in doggie silence..."what did I do to have you do this to me?" Dogs don't understand the concept of you are in the way and when that happens, accidents happen. They howl and look at you as if you were the retired, uncaring postman.

I got down on one knee to examine the damage. He turned away. I grabbed the paw. He howled more. I gently examined it. "Wiggle your toes," I ordered. (They told me in first responder class that you should do that to see if something was broken.) He just looked. See above. That look again.

I put my finger under his paw and pushed up right before the toes. They spread out. No breaks.

That was enough. "Look," I said. "Good atheletes work through pain. Let's go."

I turned to start a slow jog. He milked it again holding out the crippled paw and giving me the look again. I pulled on the leash. He tried the paw and looked at me. Finally a step. Another look. Another step. Another look. Then he bolted off after a squirrel. It was a good move because I was holding the leash lightly. He was gone. Full speed.

That's when I stepped in the hole.

Maybe the treadmill idea isn't so dumb.