My mother was scheduled for a surgical procedure on Friday morning. I believe some form of HIPAA prevents me from getting into the details. If not, I’m in no position to press cases with my mother, as you will see.
The afternoon before, we worked out the logistics. My sister had offered a ride for the 6:45am check-in time. I drew the seemingly easy assignment of going to my mom’s house and letting the dog outside. The timing worked well with my schedule.
My mother has had her dog for about a month. She had been trying to adopt a rescue dog for months, but nothing had quite worked out. She announced her intentions to take a break from the pursuit for a few months when Teddy came along. Teddy is an eight-year-old Morkie with light brown hair. He favors his Malteses side and has a larger structure than our family’s Morkie. The timing was just right. My mother was elated.
Teddy moved in on the second day of the new year–the day after my mother’s birthday, and couldn’t have been a better present. He and my mother became fast friends and best buddies, with Teddy acclimating immediately, ie, taking over the household.
One of the first things we discovered about Teddy was his energy, especially for an older dog. Ours is a total lapdog that does things according to his own schedule. And when in doubt, he’ll curl up on the sofa for a nap. My mother has a lot of energy for her age, so it seemed like a good fit. I hadn’t seen her that happy since her last grandchild was born.
Over the phone, my mother gave me specific directions on letting Teddy outside. At the moment, it seemed like overkill, though my mother is very detailed. While her backyard is fully fenced, she warned I’d need to keep him on a leash. He’s good at finding gaps and will excuse himself on a whim, or to pursue a squirrel. As we had snow on the ground from the previous weekend, I was also to wipe his paws with baby wipes once back inside. In closing, my mother also apologized for the messiness of her house. She always does this when I'm there while she’s away. Usually, I don’t notice the difference. You could eat off the bathroom floor, though she’d never allow it.
Friday was very cold. It made no pretenses, an arctic air mass joining a leaden sky and bitter wind. Given the way I felt, I’d planned on a light day. I needed to run a few errands in the morning, then straighten up downstairs before retreating to the cozy upstairs loft to write.
Society has a problem with sweatpants, and I’m just as guilty as the next person. The look has taken over to the extent that we now have dress and casual sweatpants. If I’m going to be out and doing something or seeing people, I will wear my nicer sweats and call them “joggers.” If I plan on sitting on my ass all day, I have a drawer for my casual sweats. Casual sweats are cheaper, larger, and less form-fitting. Even paired with an expensive pair of Nike running shoes, nobody thinks exercise is on my agenda for the day. Having planned for a light day, I went with my lazy sweats and a long-sleeved shirt. I needed a coat, but figured I wouldn’t be outside that long.
Teddy was pleased to see me. He leapt as if on a pogo stick and brushed me with his paws. I scratched him for a few moments before putting him on his leash. In the backyard, he darted from place to place, exploring, looking for squirrels, and following sounds. After about five minutes, he did what he needed to and led me back toward the house. I wiped his paws and offered him a treat as a reward for his cooperation.
I looked around the room. My mother was right. The place wasn’t its usual, tidy self. Most of this could be attributed to Teddy. He had two beds, a handful of toys strewn across the living and dining room floors. The dog had acquired a lot of stuff in three weeks. Then again, being loved by my mother means you’re always cared for.
Ready to go, I went to the front door with Teddy bounding in tow. After putting my key in the lock, I bent down to scratch his head one more time and assure him that his momma would be home soon. He caught a whiff of fresh air and slipped between my leg and the door frame, launching into a full sprint. By the time I could turn around, he was two houses down and across the street.
“Teddy!”
* * * *
A couple of weeks ago, I was playing tennis with my daughter. As a result, I got what most middle-aged men get when playing with teenagers. No, not arrested. Injured. I did something to my knee that has made a full stride quite painful.
The day before my mother’s surgery, I aggravated the injury going up the stairs at our house. I was in the loft watching the Maple Leafs besmirch and defecate upon the otherwise beautiful game of hockey and made several belabored trips up and down. By Friday, I was clearly hobbled, moving like Willis Reed in the 1970 NBA Finals.
* * * *
I left the door open with the key in the lock and gave chase. Not only is Teddy active for his age, but he is also very fast. Four houses away, seven houses away, a right turn toward the next block. I pursued as best I could, traipsing across icy roads, calling, pleading, begging Teddy to stop. My lazy sweats proved detrimental from the beginning, as they sagged with each stride.
Teddy rounded the corner and halfway up the next street. I closed in and he double back, through the yards across the street, hopping up on porches for a look around, then darting off across the snow-covered yards.
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| Prefontaine |
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| Prefonteddy |
“Teddy! Stop!”
He’d pause and look at me, smiling with his adorably goofy underbite. If I made a move in his direction, he’d take off again, head back, sprinting through the snow, paying no mind to where he was going or what danger he might encounter. He was a full two blocks ahead of me as I struggled just to keep him in sight. He made another right turn through the yards, porches, and driveways.
It’s been a dozen years since I was a regular runner. I’m out of shape and much slower than I was then. That said, I’m not sure I could’ve run with Teddy when I was in optimal condition, particularly in snow and ice.
To the people in their homes, looking through their windows, I must’ve looked like a wonderful idiot. Limping through the neighborhood, one hand keeping my pants over my ass, and pleading with an animal who clearly felt no obligation to cooperate.
We had worked west on a collector street, with Teddy making frequent turns onto the perpendicular residential streets. Three blocks south, and he would’ve been on a major street. I had to at least somehow keep him in the neighborhood. Since Teddy was making up the route along the way, I had no way of getting ahead and cutting him off.
The further he got, the more I fretted. I thought of my mother. In surgery. She’d be out soon and ready to come home later that day. She’d be looking forward to seeing her dog. I had to get it home. My heart was pounding, and my lungs burned. My knee ached sharply with every move. Teddy stopped to metricate in the snow.
“Teddy,” I said calmly as I moved toward him. “Stay there, buddy. Let’s go back home.”
His eyes held my gaze for a few seconds before he was off again. Straight ahead, full gallop, then back into the neighborhood.
“Teddy, please stop running,” I whined. “Don’t do this. Please.” I felt pathetic and feckless. I had stepped on a ridge of ice and had bruised my foot to go along with my aching knee. I wanted to drop to the icy ground and weep.
That wasn’t possible. As difficult as this was proving to be, failing was not an option. I imagined having to meet my mother at her house, post-surgery–loopy, in pain, emotional–to tell her that I’d lost the dog she dearly loved. So irresponsible. After being spared the 5:30am wake-up and assigned the simple task of letting a dog go outside into a fenced-in yard. She wouldn’t so much as trust me with carving the Thanksgiving turkey–four years from now when she finally felt somewhat comfortable having me in her home again.
My family would say they understood, while looking at me with accusative eyes. A likely story, they’d agree. I was probably raiding the pantry and not even paying attention to the dog. Any ill effects from the operation would be attributed to the emotional and mental strain I’d put on my poor mother.
With that realization, I resumed the struggle with renewed vigor. I was Strap leaving the huddle after Coach Dale told me God wanted me on the floor. I carried on with a confident grin of a Philippian foundation.
This lasted roughly 186 seconds. Teddy had covered two city blocks and was widening his lead. Keeping him in my sight became my primary goal. I realized that the only way I was going to catch this dog was with the aid of an automobile. Unfortunately, mine was too far away. Teddy could’ve covered a mile in the time it would’ve taken me to retrieve the car.
Going for one full-on chase, hopeful I could sneak up close enough and tackle him before he escaped. I got close a couple of times, but he was far too quick. He continued to visit porches and yards, pissing in every third or so. This could go on all day, or one of us would die trying.
I called my wife, who works a couple of miles from my mother’s house.. She didn’t answer. I left a message that she would later describe as me sounding like I was having a heartattack. The hospital was just a few miles away, so I then tried my sister, leaving her a similar SOS.
Fortunately, my wife sensed the urgency and desperation of my plight. And was able to get away at a moment’s notice. I just needed to keep Teddy under surveillance. A young man driving a 4-Runner stopped with his window down.
“You got a runner?” he asked.
“Do I ever,” I huffed.
The man didn’t commit to joining the chase, but began following me in his vehicle. My wife called a few minutes later to request my location, but drove up on us. She saw furry Prefontaine galloping away from me and showing no sign of slowing. My wife tried to cut him off using the car, a task complicated further by the icy roads. The man in the 4-Runner got out of his truck after pulling up about ten feet behind Teddy, who was in the middle of the street.
The man took a couple of steps, and both he and the dog broke into sprints with the man pumping his arms and legs furiously before shutting it down. He continued on foot, and my wife followed in the car. I went back to get the running 4-Runner and caught up with the chase.
For the first time, Teddy showed signs of slowing down. He frequently stopped to eat snow. Not long enough for anyone to grab him, but at least there was hope. After his break, he zipped through a yard and beneath a fence into somebody’s yard. When we arrived, he wasn’t there. My wife spotted him on the next block over. The man helping us headed that way while I rounded from the backside. It had taken on the feel of a police manhunt.
Of all the three-word sentences my wife has ever spoken to me, at that moment, ‘He’s got him,’ had to have been my favorite. Sure enough, Teddy had gotten cornered between two houses, and our Samaritan was able to grab him.
“Good game, Teddy!” he said, handing the dog to me.
We thanked the man profusely. My wife offered him a cup of coffee, but he refused. He told us he’s got dogs that like to do the same thing and was glad to help. I nevergot his name, but he did me a huge favor. I held Teddy the way Lenny held the bunny, hugging and squeezing and climbing into my wife’s car. In the interest of accuracy, I did not call him George.
“The hay is in the barn,” I told my sister, who had been monitoring our progress from a hospital waiting room. “That was fun,” I said, more relieved than anything. “Maybe we don’t tell mother about this until she’s further into her recovery,” I suggested. “I wouldn’t want her to fret.”
According to the calculations I made after the fact, Teddy had made it approximately a mile from home when he was apprehended. According to the tracker on my phone, I covered two and a half miles tracking the zig-zagging and moving up and down the streets. I think I yelled Teddy in frustration, desperation, and anger more times that afternoon than all of Ted Kennedy’s advisors did throughout his career.
At home, I took a hot shower and ate a bowl of soup. Later, I fell asleep sitting upright on the sofa while listening to What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye.
That afternoon, my mother called. Her surgery had gone smoothly and was successful. She was at home resting and felt much better than she had expected. She apologized profusely for her dog’s behavior. What can you do here? All I could say was that it was no big deal, and I was relieved everything had worked out all right. My mother was the one who was in surgery; I couldn’t let her feel guilty about something that wasn’t her fault.
“Someday,” I told her. “This will be really funny.”
It already was.
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