Running Like The Wind

by Michael deLisle

Levi could run like the wind. He had power, he had grace. He possessed the unbridled strength of youth, as well as the ease and assurance that only comes with the passage of time. In his prime, he could outrun the fastest sprinter in the hundred meters, and have enough left to whip a middle distance runner in the mile. I never saw him winded and I rarely saw him tired. And he never gave up. On anything. On anyone. He was a class act.

When he was young, his favorite run was up toward the abandoned pioneer cemetery on the hill behind our house near the big bend of the Sangamon River. He’d race up that hill in full stride, reach the top effortlessly, and toss his head in the wind, looking for some new challenge to conquer, then gallop back downhill toward where I watched, my heart bursting with pride and love. He sped straight at me, veering off to the side only at the last second. The one time I actually tried to avoid his charge, he crashed into me at full tilt, knocking me a full ten feet back into a huge snowdrift, where I lay laughing til the tears in my eyes began to freeze in the icy January wind.

Many a day we set off together for a run, traversing the endless country roads separating cornfield from beanfield. The pavement ran straight ahead as far as the eye could see, shimmering into liquid nothingness as it merged with the horizon miles away. On these runs he humored me, holding back in a slow trot while I huffed and puffed in agony. Occasionally he’d blast off in search of some unseen prey, only to reappear hundreds of yards ahead, looking back at me as if to say, “Is that all the further you’ve come? C’mon, get the lead out.” The only times I kept up with him in those days was on cross-country skis, and then only if the snow was more than a foot deep. I’d glide swiftly through fresh powder atop a crust of frozen snowpack, while Levi fought relentlessly through deep drifts, his breath coming easily, his deep brown eyes shining with excitement. And then we’d stop to rest a bit before plunging down the embankment toward the frozen river below. He’d come over to me and lean up against me, nearly knocking me over, looking up as if to say, “That was fun, let’s do it again!” No, as an athlete, Levi had no peers. If they held an Olympic competition for folks like him, he’d probably have filled an entire trophy case in his day.

Did I mention that Levi was a dog? Not just an ordinary dog, but a hundred and ten pounds of cornfed canine. His mother was a 150 pound full blooded Saint Bernard, and the father an ambitious little Norwegian Elkhound who probably never tipped the scales past 45 pounds. Levi acquired the best of both worlds in that particular genetic combination, the size and mild temperament of his mother, and the sporting instincts and endurance of his father. Levi came to live with me as a ten-week old ball of fur and fuzz, full of spit and vinegar. He was pretty much his own boy in the beginning, just sort of tolerating me, but over the years, we became closer than I ever dreamed possible. He was my protector, and at the same time my child. He depended on me, yet he was the embodiment of the totally free spirit I could never be. He was my partner in this journey we call life, my pride and joy.

For many long years, I did no running, other than around the basepaths at various softball diamonds, or running around town chasing women. We had the good fortune to live in the country, so when I left for work, there’s no telling what kind of hijinks he accomplished while I was gone. But I used to see several dogs in that neck of the woods bearing more than a passing resemblance to Levi, so it seemed the old boy got around.

Every morning we went for a long walk around the forty acres of beautiful woodland where we lived. It was the high point of both our days. Sometimes we charged full speed ahead, other times we strolled, meandered, lollygagged, checking out the abundant wildflowers, and gazing raptfully at the harbingers of the changing seasons. When young, Levi was a terror chasing squirrels and rabbits, but in the autumn of his years, he seemed quite content to sniff ‘em and spot ‘em; then look up at me with those huge brown eyes, saying, “Did you see that one? He was a big one, wasn’t he?”

By the time I returned to running in 1990, big Levi was already eleven years old, still young at heart, but old in the hip. Arthritis was beginning to have its way with my powerful pupster. When I took off on a run, he’d look up with hope, then seem to understand he couldn’t go. It was so sad to see that look on his face. It made me feel like I’d let him down. Here I was, the wise and omnipotent provider, and yet I couldn’t protect my dog from the ravages of old age. I loved that dog fiercely and unconditionally, the purest love I’ve ever known. But I was powerless to slow the hands of time, to allay the slow painful death stalking my friend as he slept.

As the summer of 1991 waned, there appeared hope that the end was still some way off. Levi still appeared to be enjoying himself, still went for our good morning walk, still ate and drank with great gusto. Whenever I returned home from town, there was that dog, grinning at me from the front porch. And when I returned from yet another great run on yet another lovely country road, there was the big guy, every time, waiting patiently, wanting to hear my story. With that same slow smile and that same loving look.

Unfortunately, this story has no surprise ending. In September, as all good dogs do, old Levi died. Sadly, I was not there to lay him to rest. I was traveling with my dad, and when I got home, there was a note waiting for me instead of a dog. I cried for days. And yet, in the short run, it was perhaps easier for me this way: I doubt I could have endured the heartbreak of his final day. But in the long run, I’ll always deeply regret not being there for him. I was supposed to be. I didn’t get to say goodbye.

For now, I’ve had time to let my grief mellow. The time for mourning is over, and the time for rich, satisfying memories is at hand. I remember a dog who could jump higher than my head to snatch a stick from my hand. A dog who ran and hiked and camped with me in the Smokies, the Rockies, and the flatlands in between. A dog who spooked a thousand Canadian geese into an unforgettable takeoff from a northern lake. A dog with the heart of a lion, and the gentle soul of a child. A dog who could run like the wind.

EPILOGUE: This remembrance took form during a long moonlight run on a frosty evening in December, a night much like the one on which Levi first came to live with me. And, on this night, as the stars burned like fiery diamonds in the sky, one last thought echoed over and over in my mind as I, too, tried to run like the wind. And that is this: the next time you see someone you care about, tell them what they mean to you, tell them you love them. I told Levi that almost every day, but I wasn’t allowed on his final day. Life often gives no warning. The finish line comes into view much too late. Make no assumptions. Leave no room for regret. Live and love. And do it like old Levi did it. With a whole lotta love, running like the wind.

“Running Like the Wind” was originally published in FOOTNOTES Magazine January 1992 issue