Dreaming of a cold October morning run with Zuni

Here is my daydream on this hot August morning in Santa Fe.

It starts early in the day. There is a dog resting his head on our bed, staring at me. If I move, he will begin to whine and bark.

I stay still, opening one eye to see an enthusiastic five-year-old German Shepherd named Zuni.

In the dream, it's a cold October morning. From our bedroom, we can see whisps of snow on the peaks of the Sangre De Cristo mountains.

(For those not from Santa Fe, in August, we all dream of cold Octobers)

I stretch, and Zuni goes wild, jumping on the bed, zoomies around the room, for he knows what's next: a run.

I get up and get dressed, and Zuni grabs me by the wrist and leads me, whining, to our front door.

In the dream, I remember that our door opened to the vastness of the Pecos Wilderness to the east and the spine of the Rocky Mountains to the north. It was a wonderful place to be a dog (and a human).

I open the door, and Zuni leaps ahead, free.

The poet Mary Oliver wrote, "Of all the sights I love in this world—and there are plenty — very near the top of the list is this one: dogs without leashes."

Unleashed, he runs down our dirt driveway, stops, and looks back at me. Being an adult, I start creakily and slowly. But Zuni is patient. He waits for me at the bottom of the driveway, and then we are off. He stays in front, zig-zagging back and forth, picking up smells. Not having his early morning energy, I jog in a straight line down the road. Zuni stops at our favorite trail, which heads up into the hills east of Santa Fe. When I turn onto the trail, he zooms ahead.

Here's the thing: when you are bonded to a dog, and the dog is bonded to you, even unleashed, they stay close. Zuni is never out of sight. He is free, and he is loved—the best of both worlds.

Climbing now up a scree slope, Zuni lopes to the top while I do my best to keep up. At the top, he waits for me, tongue out, panting deep.

The air is warmer, and we can smell the piñon and the rocky earth. Crows and Piñon Jays are overhead, giving raucous song to the two intruders.

Zuni ignores them as we continue to climb. Have you ever been with a jubilant dog? That was Zuni, in his element, the wilderness, and with his human.

The trees turn to Ponderosas, the scree to boulders. We have to pick our way around them.

It was always about this time in a run that I wondered if he ever fatigues. As the sun rose and the air heats, would he continue, as long as I followed, as long as his "pack" accompanied him?

There were days when I had the time and energy, and it was cold when I tested that theory. On those occasions, I learned that I couldn't outrun Zuni. It seemed he would go forever. He was born to run.

Inevitably, I would be the one to announce that it was time to go back home, to work, and for Zuni, the couch.

Running down, I would focus on keeping my balance, while Zuni would casually jog a few yards ahead of me.

Hitting the road, we would both slow down, not quite ready to face the non-wild world.

But if there are defining characteristics of German Shepherds, it is their sense of responsibility and their love of routine. Zuni knew it was time to go home and take his morning nap. That was his routine.

We'd quietly enter the house, for it was still early, and start the day.

A cool, almost cold, October morning. A great dog. A long run in the mountains.

As I sit here in our hot August, a little panicked that it might never be cold again, I keep returning to that dream.

It was decades ago. We now live in a neighborhood with an asphalt road and leash laws. Zuni, as all dogs must, has long passed.

But the memory stays, and the dream plays in an endless loop.

I would want it no other way. Our very selves are made of memories and dreams of cold morning runs and unleashed dogs. 

For more about being with dogs, pick up a copy of “Dog Lessons: Learning the Important Stuff from Our Best Friends.” Available at Collected Works in Santa Fe, Barnes and Noble and online.