Of Dogs and Treadmills

I don't know if you truly understand dogs until you have had several to share your living space, your furniture and your bed. Tricky little devils, they manage to sneak, crawl and squidge their way into every crevasse of your life.

They leave behind fur, spitty kisses and the ever present assurance that they honestly believe you to be better than sliced bread with melted butter.

Then, the inevitable occurs and for whatever reason, a dog will let you know in some not so subtle ways that you have 'let them down'.

That moment arrived on December 26th, when the treadmill came on line. I actually received it on Christmas Day, but I don't know any people who actually use the treadmill when Christmas goodies are hanging over their platters and the gravy boat is nearby. I am sure there are some purists out there who do, I just don't personally know them.

So, I hop up onto the treadmill today to begin the agony, uh the ecstacy that is exercising for this morning and my dog, whom I have been training, begins to whine.

HOW CARELESS OF YOU!!! The look in her eyes is accusatory, to say the least. Fool that I am, I put my time ahead of hers.

Turning off the program (hey, 32 seconds doesn't count people!), I encouraged Gypsy to hop aboard and began sequencing the keys for both angle and speed. Starting slow to warm up the old doggie hams, we did a minute or so of light walking. Then, as the glutes and hams were thoroughly warmed up, we increased the speed. Tongue hanging out, Gypsy applied herself to the task until she decided abruptly that she had done enough.

Had I not been holding the bar in front of me with my right hand, I would have made an ugly exodus through the uprights holding the computer readout screen.

"Well, fine, girl! All you had to do was tell me you were done! You about jerked my arm clean off, mutt!"

Her happy bark let me know the assassin is alive and well and had planned the whole proceedure carefully. This isn't about my needs people, and don't you ever forget it.
She was in training to learn another approved method sanctioned for routine home assassinations and I willingly was duped into teaching it to her.

Thankfully, Gypsy decided to leave the room and I was able to sweat some calories off. We hope. And now the laundry has started so my day is going good.

My only remaining issue lies with the fact that she feels totally comfortable lying directly over my face while I am lifting weights.

Subtle she is not on this manuever. She could take a lesson from Rambo and at least camoflague herself to look like the exercise blanket, but Gypsy prefers to let her victim know when it's coming. . .

The good news is that while I am waving the hand weights around like a maniac trying to keep from smacking her or me in the head, I am building up some pretty nice biceps. My son Thomas calls them 'Miguel' and 'Tulio'. He does this to mock me, of course.

Come to think of it, the tone and tenor of his letters about my exercise bears a striking resemblance to Gypsy's conduct. . . you don't think he. . . no, he couldn't have.

But then again, maybe he DID teach her everything she knows. After all, she is his 'baby girl doggie' and she literally does his bidding.

I'll have to investigate that later when I can breathe out of more than one lung.