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Shortly after Linus began life with us, we found out quickly that there’s one thing a dog who has spent
three years of his life cooped up in a small backyard wants to do, and that’s run.
And every chance he got, run he did—all over our yard, all over the neighbors’ yards and all over the woods in
the back of the house. Even though we tried to keep him on leash, he often bolted with such force there was nothing to do
but let him go (if we wanted to keep our arms in their sockets, that is). And besides, Linus on the romp was a joy to behold,
truly, except when he would stop running to mark his new territory (we didn’t mind his marking our shrubs, of course,
but the neighbors in our über-suburban enclave were less than pleased). Linda,
of course, loved the fact that he peed all over our neighbors' perfect lawns--perhaps she put him up to it?
But there were many times when Linus took the “born to run” concept a little too far.
One time shortly after he moved in, Ann took Linus for a walk on the trails behind the Southampton house and he spotted
a deer. Well, he took after that deer and was gone a very, very long time—so
long, Ann was trying to figure out how she was going to explain to Linda that she lost their new dog. After a lot of yelling and general carrying on (on Ann’s part, let’s be clear), he did finally
make his way back to her, panting so heavily it looked as though his tongue was going to fall out of his head. He had just
had the run of his life and was obviously pleased with himself, but also so exhausted he collapsed at her feet. Ann then was
afraid he was going expire on the spot or she’d have to carry him home, but after resting for 20 minutes was he able
to make the walk back under his own steam.
Linda had her own series of adventurous walks with Linus, such as the one she
took with him at Fitzgerald Lake.
He decided to walk into the lake, but chose a marshy spot where the water was over his head. Since Linus was no swimmer, Linda
had to yank him out of the water. To add a little extra je ne sais quoi to the
occasion, Linus emerged covered in what can best be described as “swamp water.”
Linus pulled a similar stunt when we were all walking together on the Mill River path near Smith College. He was investigating the river
at a particularly steep part of the riverbank, when suddenly we heard a very loud splash, followed by thrashing about. Happily,
he was able to get himself out of that jam, but returned to us looking absolutely miserable (Linus didn’t like being
wet) and a little sheepish. We tried not to laugh, but…
Then there was the time Ann took him on a walk up in Conway
with an acquaintance and her dog, and Linus somehow found his way into an old well a ways off the trail. He had to paddle
furiously to keep his head above water until we found him, and Ann is still unsure where she got the strength to pull his
80 pound carcass out of that mess—whew!
But after he had been with us a few years, his runs took less dramatic turns. One particularly charming run
was at Dog Heaven (aka, the State Hospital Grounds), where Linus came upon a flock of birds in a plowed cornfield. He routed
the dear birds and they took flight around the field, with Linus "chasing" after them and barking below. They took him on
quite a run before they got bored and flew off to parts unknown.
Another, more typical, example of his more "mellow" runs is the time Linda took him for a walk on the Smith College trail
and he decided he liked the other side of the river better—it was where the dogs were, after all. Linda yelled and yelled
for him to return, but ended up having to walk across the river to get him and bring him back. Of course, she knew what a
social critter he was, so all was quickly forgiven.
As you can imagine, Linus was always quickly forgiven.
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