A golden doodle is my fitness coach
This is Henry.
He’s six years old, a mixture of golden retriever and poodle, and he loves to go for runs and walks.
Henry is a kind of rescue; his original person was diagnosed with cancer and was no longer able to care for him. My wife and I adopted him. He’s a terrific guy, amiable, playful, and, for the most part, uncomplaining.
Immediately after we adopted Henry, I started to include him in my morning runs. It didn’t take him long to pick up on the routine, and before long he started to expect a jog through the neighborhood.
Sometimes, though, I want to go for a bike ride, or a kayak paddle, instead of a run or walk. On these days, Henry expresses his displeasure by trying to force his way out the door when I’m leaving. And my wife reports that when I’m gone on these non-Henry outings, he paces the house with an impatience that drives her nuts.
I’ve solved this problem, however, by taking him for quick walks around the block before I go off on my own. He also has learned to tell the difference between my running gear and my cycling clothes, and sometimes he’ll just go lay down on our bed when he sees me with the longer, tighter stretchy cycling shorts.
Maybe those are so unattractive on me that even Henry doesn’t want to be seen with me in public when I’m wearing them. “Nah, I’m out. I’ll be here taking a nap when you get back.”
Recently, in an effort to pump up the volume on my activity levels, I’ve strived to take a walk after eating supper. It’s a simple thing, really, but I’ve found that it’s been incredibly hard to motivate myself to get out the door after a day of work, and almost always, a pretty heavy evening meal capped off with a high-sugar dessert of some kind, such as six Oreos or a three heaping scoops of ice cream.
Mornings are easy; I’m a natural early riser and through years I’ve built up a mindset that going outside for some kind of exercise in the early hours is simply what needs to be done. There is no option.
Evenings are different. That’s when Kris is settling in with a puzzle or a game, an episode of the British show “Time Team” on the TV. I sit down after cleaning up the dishes (she cooks, I clean) and then, usually, scroll through through various news sites, social media offerings and blogs, then doze off in my chair.
The idea is to get outside for a brisk walk and look around before falling into the chair. I’ve read this is really beneficial for a person, a way to help open the door to better sleep and bring down blood sugar levels. Plus, it just seems to be a great way to cap off a day.
But it’s cold here in central Wisconsin, and it’s hard to open the door to bluster winds that whip up snow pellets when the chair beckons. Nonetheless, I persevered in getting out, oh, I dunno, two out of five nights.
I take Henry, of course.
Somehow he’s got it into his head that this is something we need to do every night, and he’s become very insistent that we get that walk in. His strategy is very simple, but effective.
When I sit down in the evening, he starts to play. First he’ll toss around a ball or other toy on his own. Then he’ll start dropping it into my lap. If I don’t throw it for him, he stamps his feet and sits and stares at me with the most woeful, heartbreaking look he can muster. He’s not a complainer, but he might give out a little mew of cry every once in a while.
He’ll also bug my wife with the toy, too. He’ll make a general nuisance of myself until Kris will finally turn to me and say, “You know, he wants something.”
Henry’s ears will perk up when he hears that, and his head will swivel at me with his ears at attention.
I’ll say something, like, sigh, “Yeah, I suppose,” and put my hands on my knees. Henry will burst into spasms of physical joy, spinning around, jumping, maybe giving out a trimphant woof or two.
And then we’ll go out for our walk.
That’s some good coaching, Henry. Well done.
