As a youngster, he got into everything. With unquenchable curiosity, he nosed everything in sight –  dirty dishwasher racks, trash, laundry, granola, stinky socks, Easter baskets, garbage cans, and toilet bowls. At eight weeks, his freedom was limited to a playful exploration  of a few backyards. At twelve weeks, he soared through a three-mile round trip jaunt with ease. Training books warned that his hips may not recover if over challenged as a little guy. Not true for this short-haired, rusty, muscle-bound Vizsla. Baby, he was born to run.

Like a prince – head high, muscles rippling, glistening auburn coat glistening, amber eyes alert, he waited patiently. Motionless and ready to romp, he knew,  She will get her running shoes. She always does. With barreled chest and sinewy arms, he watched my every move and sent ESP messages:  Get your shoes. Go on. I got your rhythm. Indeed, he did. With one small nod of my head toward the mudroom, he let loose plowing into my hips, shifting his body full-force into mine in an effort to be one with me in gleeful appreciation.  

Yes! I knew it! We’re going! Tail wagging furiously he’d nudge my hands and arms as he inadvertently sabotaged my daily efforts to put on my Brookes Adrenalines. I’d dodge into the bathroom, slam the door, and breathe  – grateful for the quiet reprieve of tying my shoes.

The regular routine.

I open the bathroom door.  Watson, in full play position with front legs extended, calculates which door will set him free – front or garage. I cross to the entryway. Watson vaults across the dining room table as he looks back at me to make sure he’s got the right door. As I reach for the doorknob, he glues his back-end to my thighs and strains his neck for eye contact. Struggling with the handle with this forty-five pound bundle of pure vitality pressed against me, I reach and twist. Watson sails across the porch in one swoop out-performing all images of super heroes. Leash in hand, scrutinizing my surroundings, I watch for unexpected walkers, school children, and the rare car that passed in front of our Chandana home. Neighbors knew him and marveled at his athleticism.  Faster than the speed of light, his grace put any deer to shame.

Free! Free! I love this! This is thee best! Oh, I love this smell! I love this bush! I love this mailbox! I love this light pole! I love this fire hydrant! Blurring tail, beautiful body, rollicking, curious soul, he delights in rain, snow, sleet, and sun. Everything is interesting. Everything is an adventure. Everything is the best.

We run the neighborhood, his magnificent poise wowing the middle-schoolers awaiting the bus. Front legs outstretched, hind legs straight back, body parallel to the green field, he sours. I, watchful for an unexpected walker or tempting discarded McDonald’s wrapper, follow in my slow, steady plod prepared to call him back should a stranger appear. Armed with poop bags, treats, and a flashlight, I watch for his pause and mark his pit-stops with the accuracy of a US Open golf caddy.

He races ahead, always cognizant of where I am. If I get too far behind, he stops, turns, and courteously watches for me to round the corner. Our eyes meet. Are you coming? What’s taking you so long? Are we all good? I’m worried about you. I laugh to myself and say out loud, “I’m coming, Watson. Thanks for waiting.”

When we sold our house, I sent out flyers to friends who run who might want a dog in the family. Emotions ran high last fall for many reasons, not the least of which was the giving away of Watson. When a rare husband-wife biology-psychology scholar team responded, the interview was quite rough. I bared all the facts. “He’s the coolest dog, but if you don’t run him, he eats socks.” I then described the multiple surgeries and emotional worries of the last six years. Rob and Jenny simply nodded. They had been looking for a family dog for their twins, Max and Momo, but all of the dogs at the shelter seemed too docile. Ha! I thought. This is a miracle!

And it was. Watson Atticus now resides with two college professors and two fourth graders. When friends ask us about Watson, we say he is away at school.