Running with Chet Baker

A thoroughly inviting road. It has everything I need.

On July 30, I decided to try running. Phoebe's been running all summer, and she doesn't feel right when she can't go out. So that morning, I ran and gasped a mile behind her lithe form as it disappeared around the first bend. She met me, still outgoing, on her way back.

Running behind a 104-pound teen with a BMI of 16 is not what I, or anyone my age, should be doing. So the next morning I went by myself. Well, I went alone, but for Chet Baker. He's essential.

There followed a week of very sore legs and feet while I decided whether running was what I should be doing at my age. Ow, ow, ow. Kneeling down was excruciating. I figured I'd run right through it, every day. Didn't want to quit. Something about seeing your daughter disappear in front of you spurs you on. I'd only tried running once, when I was in college, but the harsh pavement and antique shoes killed my shins and I had to quit.

We have no pavement, only fine gravel that crunches and gives underfoot. The road stretches well beyond where I go, but I go a little farther every day.

Soon enough, the soreness went away. Stretching and a decent pair of shoes helped.

And I found that getting out in the early morning was just what I needed to get my blood circulating and my thoughts arranged.

We have Queen Anne's lace, chicory, and garnet red clover that sparkles with dew.


We have a towhee that sings alone from the fastness of a mist-wreathed forest.

We have bees that hum in the pinetops, and the odd red-eyed vireo muttering away to itself.

Sometimes we have bunnehs, but not enough to suit Chet.
They always get away.

We have our own curious cows, Angus-Holstein crosses, perhaps?

Perhaps you remember Abby and Veronica from winter sledding parties. Veronica (the mostly white calf) has grown tremendously.


They like us.

I'm glad to have them as training cows for Chet, who with their help has become completely reliable around cattle. Abby, the white-faced mom, helped by being sort of snorty and stompy to Chet when he ventured under the fence a couple of times. Good girl. Tell him he's trespassing.

Now: No scolding, no lead, no collar...just the understanding, and the trust between us.


I don't have to say a word to him. He knows we no longer harass cattle. As a two-year-old, he was wild, nipping, darting, chasing...it's hard to believe he's the same dog. They do settle down, become the dog you dreamt of, if you give them time and love and trust.

He turns on his heel and trots away. Good BOY, Chetty!

He flicks an ear back to acknowledge the praise, and there's extra spring in his step. He's proud of himself, too.

Extra Orcas for Chet Baker, you good boy, you.

Running with Chet--a month out, it's turned out to be a very good thing.