Wednesday, March 02, 2011

Jog of shame

It got too much for Frank at about three miles. He yanked me towards home, and did not relent.

He pulls often. I'd like to say he's improving at walking to heal, but it would be a lie.

Today he was pulling as his master, clad head to ankle in tight, middle-aged-man's black lycra, 'jogged'.

Jogging, for me, is a matter of precision judgement. If I pace myself extremely carefully I'll last up to an hour. But it's an equilibrium. One over exuberant fraction of distance and the implications are often devastating within the context of my own personal war with the road.

Frank's intervention was proving costly.
He was making me work harder, both by running faster and pulling him back to stop him making me run faster.

Earlier as I'd attempted a hamstring stretch Frank licked my face, unaware of the approach of this new, unappealing version of going for a walk.

'Why are you wearing that?,' he pondered rather obviously via tilted head.
'You look stupid. Really.
'I know Jess says you don't. But you do.
'At least you're in the house.'

I should have known not to take him with me them and there.

'Aghhhh, Stranger, STRANGER! I don't know who this person holding my lead is... aggggggh!!!'

No comments: