Running with Rocky

There are few sights more pathetic than a panting Chihuahua running 8-minute miles in the midday summer sun, but Rocky - my usual running companion - is more of a trouper than his lolling tongue and frenetic gait may suggest.

We have been running together for seven years now.

Rocky came home with us two months after our wedding, back when we knew we wanted something to care for together, but weren't ready for children and mostly killed houseplants. "It will be great," I told my husband before we brought home the high-strung, neurotic rescue Chi-Pin mix and he immediately peed on the Oriental rug we had received as a wedding gift.

To help him work off that energy (and the little pot belly he'd acquired thanks to a steady diet of deli turkey and Snausages), I launched him on a fitness plan, convinced the only way to cure him of bad behavior was to exhaust him.

It turned out to be a fitness plan for me as well. First I was slow, struggling to run a nine-minute mile. But as time passed, I became fast (at least, fast for me), perfecting a sub-22-minute 5k and completing my first marathon in under 3 hours, 50 minutes.

Running is my passion and I owe that not to fancy coaches, watches or trainers, but to a little dog who loves to sniff flowers, lick dew from blades of grass and pee on hydrants. It became my respite, something I had to do daily, like brushing my teeth. And Rocky always came along, looking up at me, brown eyes dancing with joy.

Years later, he is a good runner and mostly takes the lead, but after about four miles, his floppy, soft brown ears turn pink and he pulls on the leash wanting to play with a cute Bichon Frise or lift his leg on a bush.

Brows furrow as we run by, some are amused - "Yo Queiero Taco Bell?" a man recently yelled in our direction - others are horrified. "Are you sure that little dog is okay?" a woman on the bike path asked last week.

Rocky is fine.

He and his twisted, long red leash have been near constant companions on my three-to-four-mile jogs. At my family's lake house, he runs off leash beside me, darting into the woods, protecting me from dangerous wildlife - foxes, turtles, frogs.

At home, he is beside me (sometimes in front of me or under me, on occasion) his little legs sprinting, his collar jingling.

There have been times I wanted to kill him and times where he almost has killed me, tangling my feet in his thin leash and nearly tripping me, or spotting another dog and taking off running, yanking me along for the ride.

There have also been dusk runs in my urban neighborhood where his presence makes me feel safer - when I know that the incessant barking that drives me crazy all day is the one thing l can count on.

Over the course of our years together, we have both lost any trace of pot belly. We have become faster and able to go farther. I believe they call it "getting in shape."

Rocky turns eight-years-old this summer. His bark is still stronger (and louder) than his bite, but he has new workout companions these days: our three-year-old daughter and two-year-old son.

They chase him around the yard and tackle him to the ground, kissing his ears and patting his tummy. He is "their" dog most days, but during the hour between lacing up my Asics and when I return, dripping with sweat - both of us panting - he is all mine.