By Deirdre Hassett
Lil is firstly my dad’s dog. She’s secondly, and in a small way, mine – I have a unique selling point that my dad can never match, despite their years of teaming around together – I take her out running.
Every two months or so I descend on my parents’ house; a fairy dogmother. They say a border collie has the same intelligence as a small toddler, and a similar understanding of vocabulary. Believe it. Friday evening at home is spent fending off an outpouring of slobbery kisses from a very excited dog who is anticipating an outing like it’s Christmas eve.
Saturday morning normally goes like this: I shuffle out of bed; one eye closed, and head for the kitchen. Dog is waiting for me to emerge: WOOF! (I luvs you! We can has run now? Yay! Morning! We can has run now?) Much fending off of overexcited doggy kisses follows.
I start making breakfast. Dog: WOOF! (I did tells you I luv you muchness?) WOOF! (Is toast! I do luvs toast! I can has toast? We can has run?) I ignore all such pleas and work through a pint of coffee.
Under strict scrutiny, I sneak off to clean my teeth. A cautious head pokes in the bathroom door. Bathroom to bedroom. A doggy paw pries at the gap in the door to see what’s going on. Hopefully....ah! Clothes? WOOOOF! (Is shoes! We goes oouuuuuuuuut!) I usually crack after the first hour and take her out, belly sloshing with undigested breakfast, just to get some peace.
This Saturday, I try a different tack. In a new fat burning (ahem) strategy, I decide to run before breakfast. At 8:45am, I can hear the dog pitter-pattering impatiently outside my bedroom door. I emerge fully dressed for running. She hurls herself at me, joyously. After some misunderstandings - I have to wrestle her into the car to get us to the forest path a few miles away to the start of our run (This no run! This car!) – we hit the forest trail in Kilclooney, one of my favourite runs at home.
As I run I wish I’d brought my camera out at least for one lap. Running at home is special – off road, there is no noise apart from the quiet tickings of nature; running water, insects and the occasional distant car. The Comeraghs sit out before me, mountains and field, unwinding trail, with the white flash of the dog’s tail ahead on the path. I used to listen to music as I ran; now I use the time to think. Running with a dog continually brings you back to the present, making you aware of your surroundings and the moment; a sort of doggy Zen.
Without the dog, I am a stranger; dropped in from anywhere, straying through the neighbourhood in my fancy dryflow running gear. I’ve been away for years and the place morphs without me, old neighbours dying and children growing up. With Lil, I am identifiable by the fact that I’m running with Tom Hassett’s dog, which makes me Tom Hassett’s daughter. A local. Oh yes, the Hassetts were always runners, you know. Sometimes I run on the back roads through the townslands: Coolnahorna to Paradise; Paradise to Knockatourney; Knockatourney to Fire; Fire to Kilclooney; back to Coolnahorna. Places that are unmarked and which mean nothing to you, but which map out the adventures of my childhood.
Last summer I took the dog out on a long marathon training run. If a ten mile run is good, twenty miles is certainly twice as good in a dog’s world. We headed off on two laps of a five mile out and back through the forest path and out to Mahon Bridge. There were sneaky breaks to chow down snacks (me) and to sniff other dogs’ bottoms (her). To our mutual delight we met a baby deer (which I managed to prevent her from rounding up). At first she wandered ahead; as she got tired she ran closer and closer to me until for the last few weary miles she ran right ahead of my front of my footsteps, almost instinctively. One girl and her dog, they went to mow a meadow. At home afterwards, she panned herself out dramatically, exhausted. My brother was alarmed at the dog collapsed on the floor. “Deirdre took her for a twenty mile run” my mother remarked dryly. Without even raising her head, Dog thumped her tail blissfully in response.

*(Acknowledgement of plagiarization from the “I can has Cheezburger?” cat)