Simon came into our lives like a triple shot of espresso.
Marcia's friend Susan met him first. She said he was perfect for us. “High energy!” I said nope—not ready for another dog. We had lost Callie over the summer.
Marcia said, “Let’s give him a try. He could be a great running partner for you!”
She won.
My first picture of him is an iPhone live shot. It’s the aftermath of his launch from the middle of the room into Marcia’s lap. They’re mashed together in a chair not meant for two. His tongue hanging out. Her face freshly licked.
I was fifty-five and ten years into my bout of adult-onset athleticism. Over that decade, I’d gone from the guy who drank too much to the guy who ran all the time. A full race calendar gave me structure. Safety.
I was afraid of what would happen if I stopped.
I’d completed an Ironman triathlon in October and was prepping for a February marathon. One Saturday, I took Simon out for our first try at running together—a short training loop around Austin’s Lady Bird Lake. It went OK for the first hundred yards or so. He was a little hard to control, but no biggie.
Until he saw a squirrel.
And stopped.
Right in front of me.
A knee-high wall of unmoving dog.
I went right over the top. Water bottle, headphones, sunglasses, arms and legs all flying in different directions.
There he stood.
Frozen. Focused. Oblivious to everything.
Except that squirrel.
After that we walked.
I measured my life with data from my Garmin race watch. I constantly recorded distance, speed, time, and heart rate. I even wore it on our walks. If we stopped at a red light, I’d hit pause so my log wouldn’t be off.
Our first walks were power struggles. He’d pull one way, I’d pull another.
I had important things to do so I’d try to hurry us along.
He did too, so he’d slow us down.
His eyes would scan; he’d sniff the air.
Until he spotted a squirrel.
Then he’d stop, inch forward and freeze—focused.
Breathing slow.
Back straight.
Pointing.
He and a squirrel locked in a stare-down.
I would tug.
He would ignore.
I’d pause my Garmin.
And wait.
Over time, we became a squirrel search team. I’d scan high, he’d scan low. Once we spotted one, I’d press pause and just watch him. I envied his focus.
I started looking forward to our stops. To watching him work. To taking a break. To pressing pause. After eight minutes, my Garmin would shut itself off.
Sometimes, those were the best eight minutes of my day.
Simon is gone now, but I still make time to look for squirrels. Every now and then, I even leave my Garmin at home.
If any part of this feels familiar, I’d love to hear your story.
Just hit reply. I read every message.
— Mark
Your Next Chapter
Essays on transition, reinvention, and what comes next.
markwigginton.com
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