Stories
Bear Creek, One More Time
The vet said, “give it a few more days,” and we circled the MRI on the calendar. That weekend I said, “Go?” He lifted his head like he always did. I loaded the wagon and we went to Bear Creek Park.
We took the long loop—three miles, slow and steady. I pulled; he watched the cottonwoods slide past, turned his head to check on me, settled when the wheels hummed. We stopped for water, scratched his favorite spot behind the ear, and let the day be simple. No fixing—just going.
I told myself this was a bridge back to running beside us. Maybe it was just a bridge to goodbye. He had the wind in his face, the path he knew, and his people close. I think he was happy.
We didn’t know it was our last walk. We only knew it was ours. And it was enough.
The Big Baby Carry Chronicles
Frozen Feet
First winter with puppy Clyde, fresh snow, perfect night run—until about a mile out he did the three-leg hop… then flopped on his back with all four paws in the air like, “Hard pass.” Took me a beat to realize his feet were freezing. I scooped up this “tough guy” and jogged him home, did the towel-burrito warmup, and we declared the rest of the night an indoor adventure. Lesson learned: shoes for snow and ice. (For both of us.)
Red River Gorge
Clyde’s one true nemesis? Stairs you can see through. At Red River Gorge he inspected the metal steps, considered the abyss, and decided—nope. I carried him up. Then, because gravity is a prankster, I carried him down. He rode like royalty, absolutely certain this was the correct division of labor.
Mt. Shavano
Early Colorado rookies, one of our first 14ers with Clyde. No booties, big mistake. The granite and grit chewed his pads raw and he couldn’t finish the descent. So I packed up this “mountain dog” and hauled him all the way down while he supervised. We drove straight to the pet store and bought proper hiking shoes—for Clyde and for Pre. After that, the only thing that got worn out was me.
The Wheelbarrow Heist
One evening up the hill at a friend’s place—campfire, stories, a couple beers—Clyde caught a minor tweak and instantly filed for disability. Maybe he couldn’t walk… or maybe he saw an opportunity. I found a wheelbarrow, loaded up the “patient,” and rattled him home like a sack of royalty. Tail wagging. Zero shame. Big baby.
He was brave when it mattered, dramatic when it got him a free ride, and always absolutely worth the carry.
Front-Seat Co-Pilot
Sometimes I’d load Clyde into the truck even if I was just getting gas, checking a job site, or grabbing the kids from daycare. He’d hop straight into the front like it had his name on it—his chair. First a long look out the window, ears up, then he’d settle in and stretch out like a commuter who knew the route.
Liam loved those pickup runs. I’d pull up to school and there was Clyde in the passenger seat, looking very serious about attendance. Liam thought it was so silly that Clyde would ride in the front seat like a person.
That seat told on us: hair woven into the fabric and a little butt mark that never quite faded. If anyone else was riding shotgun, I’d lay a towel over it—a temporary guest pass. But everyone knew the truth. The front seat was Clyde’s spot. Errands turned into small adventures because he was there, and I never minded the detour.
Fast Wheels, Happy Paws (Land Between the Lakes)
Back when Clyde was younger—and so was I (not that I’m that old)—our best weekends were two bikes, two dogs, and a map of Land Between the Lakes in Kentucky. Olivia and I would clip in and roll, and Clyde and Pre would slide into formation like they’d trained for it. We didn’t have to slow much; they matched the pace—ears back, tongues out, eyes checking our wheels like it was their job.
Ten miles, sometimes more, threaded through pine and along the water. We’d stop for a quick drink—the dogs right into the lake, us at the bottles—and then back to the trail, the four of us moving like a little caravan. Campsite dinners, creek rinse-offs, dogs asleep before the stars were all the way out. We went several times a year because it felt like our place: the right kind of quiet, the right kind of tired.
Life’s fuller now and the rides are shorter, but those miles are still in my head—Clyde pacing my front wheel, Pre guarding the line, Olivia laughing through a switchback. The dogs loved it. So did we. It wasn’t complicated: point the bikes, say “Go,” and let joy keep the cadence.