Change of Pace

 I had been looking forward to the morning run in the way that I anticipate most of my planned exertions: with the brief but serious imagining that I could pull the covers over my shoulders and roll over in bed and relax into the warm cocoon of extra sleep.

Instead, I will unwind the blankets I'd worried into a twist overnight and gingerly dust off the rust in my joints as I get my bearings. I will walk the floor to gather my gear, irritating the still snoozing with my creaks and groans as I hop into my Hokas.

Truly, I find it amazing that I so seldom heed my recurring initial sluggishness. 

Especially now when I look at my wrist and see the time ticking away. I'm going to be late ... 

Surely my rally must be a result of the folks who will be expecting me ... the friends I have made pounding the pavement. Or not since I also likely forgot to add my name to the roster negating expectations. 

If I hustle I will make it.

That's when I noticed the dog, floppily making its way to the edge of the lawn, and the white mini-van slowly herding the freedom-drunk puppy to safety. 

It occurred to me that the woman exiting the vehicle was a Good Samaritan as she dropped to the ground and cautiously tried coaxing the canine toward her empty, outstretched hand. 

Her trepidation told me she was not the dog's official person. 

She was dressed all in white, with pretty shoes and styled hair. She told me she was on her way to work.  

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she said, looking at her watch. 

"I know," I replied. "You'll go to work and I'll take the dog... she has to live around here somewhere."

I asked the lady to do me one favor and drive the dog back to my house, where I could get a better-fitting harness and a leash.

As we were making arrangements, I knew I would be running around the neighborhood this morning but not along my usual course.

Together we would traipse up and down the main street – SHE (I had checked) would bumble around at my side, sniffing at this and that, as if we were always a pair. 

I was the thing out of place: As she ambled close beside me, I held her harness in an outstretched arm … as if it were toxic. I couldn't be sure an owner would know their dog if it were wearing different clothes. I peered into slow-moving cars, and dead-staring drivers, hoping to discern if they might be looking for the beast at the end of my leash. 

We visited the post office to give the postmaster a good look.

He didn't recognize her, either, but most people leave their furry friends outside … just like the sign recommends.

When I was about to give up, someone yelled out of a car “Is that Katie?”

“I sure hope so,” I hollered back. 

“But Katie didn't seem to respond at all to her name.”

He told me where Katie lived in case it was her after all.

It wasn't far. As we got there, another neighbor agreed that the dog lived in that house, but said her name was “Daisy,” which did get a reaction from my tethered friend. 

Briefly.

No one was home, unfortunately, but two Next Door posts and three messages on Facebook confirmed it was the place, and “Katie” might wish to be known as “The Escape Artist Formerly Known as Daisy,” after all.

And as it turned out, a morning of dog-walking and light detective work was exactly the change of pace I needed.