Toro, our Rottweiler-German shepherd that Rom calls a Rotten Shepherd, refused to eat. Worried, I called the vet. Instead of prescribing pills, she asked, “How much do you walk him every day?”
I hesitated. Since our dogs live on a farm and are not cooped up like city dogs, I didn’t think they needed to be walked. I answered, “I don’t walk him. He runs around the yard with Koko all day. Isn’t that enough?”
“That’s not enough. You have to walk him for 30 minutes at least every day,” she advised.
That evening, we walked the dogs around the farm. I felt like a doofus and hoped our farmer-neighbours wouldn’t see us. After we returned, Toro gobbled up his chow.
I don’t know what was so enjoyable about going around the farm on leashes, but the dogs insisted we go every day.
Since we began walking the dogs, I noticed my short temper grew a longer fuse. Is that why dogs that spend a long time without exercising are quick to bite? The vet said it certainly makes them neurotic. Do humans who don’t exercise suffer the same fate? Apparently so, with stress, dementia, and depression taking their toll.
Walking was fine until Lola, a Chippiparai, joined the pack. A hunting hound, she needed much more exercise than the others. How do I exercise her without wiping myself out? I trained her to fetch a ball. After the third fetch, she refused to play.
A friend suggested I get a mechanical rabbit for Lola to chase. But the devices cost at least $500. I did the next best thing: I tied a rag mouse to a long rope and dragged it across the garden. Lola sprinted after it. But I grew tired from running around with the rag, while she barely panted.
I thought of building a manually operated mechanical rabbit, turning a wheel would spool the rope while pulling the rag mouse. But I’d still have to walk across the garden to place the mouse and run back to turn the wheel. I would get more exercise than Lola, and that just wouldn’t do.
Rom bought a mountain bicycle for me. I was to cycle and Lola would trot along. Great idea, but how to make it work? I rode and whistled for her, but she was content to sit with Rom and watch from the veranda. I lured her with treats. She came half way and returned. I pulled the rag mouse behind me. That worked until the rope snagged in the wheel, and I fell off the cycle. But I wasn’t about to give up.
I held Lola’s leash as I cycled. I imagined she had no choice but to run along. I was wrong. When she realized I had succeeded in making her run, she adamantly sat down. I fell down again, and barely avoided breaking my teeth. Cycling wasn’t working; there was no choice but to run myself.
We set up a routine of jogging around the farm before the sun rises and heats up the world. The momentum of a daily habit sees me through most days, but when it’s disrupted, inertia sets in.
I look for excuses to not stir out of bed so early. I groggily mutter, “I worked hard yesterday, I need more rest.” But the dogs refuse to pay heed; they have become health freaks. Even if I’ve had a late night and dark circles under my eyes, the merciless beasts bark me out of bed and prance around while I pull on my shoes. It’s all very well for them to be so enthusiastic – when we return, they flop down and go to sleep, but I have to get to work.
After dogs domesticated humans to look after their every need, they have now become self-appointed personal trainers.
