Tribute to a tiny athlete

I don't want to write about running today. Bear with me. Yesterday I lost B.J., our beagle-jack russell mix.  His death was a bizarre finish to a three-week saga, ever since a neighboring pit bull attacked him. We thought he had recovered fine from the wounds, but he died in his sleep sometime yesterday afternoon.

    Like my husband says, B.J. was a pain in the neck. He barked too much, probably trying to compensate for his small stature. He was obsessively motivated by food, leaping or scampering wildly for it, never mind who might be in his way. But even Bob loved how B.J. embodied a dog's finest trait: he lived in, and loved, the here and now. Always eager for whatever came his way. Walks, runs, treats, car rides. Laying down wherever sunlight pooled on soft carpet. Shoving his wet little nose under my arm so I had to hug him. And most Saturdays, his trip to Disney Land: a hike in the woods, where he would triple our mileage by darting in and out of the underbrush, on the trail of a rabbit or anything else that smelled interesting. That's when my lapdog turned hunter, all instinct and muscle. He was an endurance athlete -- I never saw him tire, which is why watching him recover slowly from his attack wounds was so gut-wrenching.

    The house feels far too quiet this morning. I keep sensing the ghost of B.J., coming from under the table to put his paws on my leg, or turning the corner into the kitchen because I've opened the refrigerator door. 

    Our elder statesman, Chandler, sleeps on the couch; he's the dog we keep expecting to be pass away soon. I love Chandler for his wisdom and his calm, his devotion and his distinguished looks. But I loved B.J. for his energy, his enthusiasm, and our mutual fondness for the tactile. He loved to be held; I loved holding him. 

    I'd come home from my long runs on Saturday mornings, put on a dry shirt, heat up a cup of coffee, and scoop BJ up into my lap. He'd keep me warm and lick the salt off my face; I'd hug him hard.