Way back in April 2011, I adopted my first dog. A high-energy Border Collie/Australian Kelpie mix, Amelia came to my home primarily as a running companion. A month later, my husband, Bryan, got a Golden Retriever puppy, primarily so Bryan could run with me with a built-in excuse to run shorter distances because that dog does not have running stamina. As such, we named the dog Roland: not a name that immediately makes you think, “Now that’s a dog that likes to run!” No. He is exactly as Roland-y as you are currently imagining.
When the puppies were about a year old and were trained up so I was no longer dragging Amelia behind me on her leash because if it wasn’t her idea then it wasn’t a good one, I went on short runs with her for a few days straight while Roland stayed home and allegedly whined incessantly until our return. Because I occasionally have a soft heart, I decided to take them both with me for a quick one-miler. With both dogs hooked up to their leashes, Amelia and I started on our regular loop through an older neighborhood near mine with Roland in tow.
It was a lovely, late-February run: too cold to run without a light jacket, but too warm to run with gloves. The winter birds were singing, and the gravel on the shoulder of the road crunched rhythmically underfoot as I ran. About halfway into the run, I looked up as a small flock of birds flew from a huge pine tree. Without warning, my foot caught on something (read: Roland), and the ground fell away from the place I had previously assumed it would be forever. But then the heels of my hands quite forcefully discovered the ground was, indeed, still there. With this discovery came a warm wave of sharp agony coupled with nausea. Palms and knees planted firmly in the gravel scattered over the asphalt road, I focused on breathing for the plethora of moments it took for the waves of nausea to pass, then, remembering where I was, I quickly pushed my body up and looked around to ensure no one in any of the nearby houses had seen my less-than-ballerina-like swan dive. With the swift movement came another bout of nausea, so back to sitting I went to recover again and assess the damage.
Meanwhile, both dogs stared at the tree waiting for more birds. Roland’s tongue lolled out the side of his dumb face while Amelia leaked high-pitched air through her facehole because, since we weren’t running, her excess energy had to escape somehow.
I, however, just moaned pathetically (read: said some choice words and called Roland all sorts of non-repeatable names) as I looked down at my hands, which were decorated with embedded gravel chunks of all shapes and sizes. When I attempted to brush some aside, the pain and nausea set in again, so I tried picking out the large chunks only to find that they were the only things holding in the blood. On the bright side, since my hands hit hardest, my knees had only a few scrapes and rocks to be removed.
Sitting on the cold road was starting to make it feel like not such a nice late-February day and I was about ½ mile from home. So, I stood up—much more slowly and carefully this time—and made a decision: I was going to run back home. Walking was for wimps. Seeing as how I couldn’t open my hands because only the soft curl of my resting hand was keeping the pain-nausea at bay, I decided to just let the dog leashes drag and hope Amelia didn’t run away. I did not care about Roland’s future at this point; you’ll understand when this happens to you. I bent my arms and ran two steps before pain shot straight from the heels of my hands down my arms past my elbows and into my very soul. I kid you not.
Walking was no longer for wimps; it was time for a leisurely and painful stroll home.
The dogs did not agree with the stroll, but, tongue lolling and high-pitched facehole leaking, they both made it home with me.
Upon arriving home, I shared a tear-filled and incredibly colorful version of the story with Bryan, who googled the best way to clean these types of wounds. Upon choosing a version of the “scrub thoroughly with soap and water to remove all dirt and rock particles,” I was able to gingerly rinse away most of the larger rocks and the surface dirt and a bit of dried blood before giving up because it had so much of the hurting. And, oh my, what lovely hamburger hands I had underneath.
Meanwhile, the dogs were romping around in the yard, leashes still attached, waiting to go see the birds and the rest of the exciting world outside during their next run together.
Six years later, and they’re still waiting.
