Couch Potato

When we first shared with family and friends that we would be adopting a retired racing greyhound, we got some questions and some quizzical expressions. Our family isn’t exactly the active type. Hyper, yes. Active intentionally, no. It’s not uncommon to find all of us in different corners reading books. I understand why people were curious why we would knowingly choose to bring home a creature that can reach speeds of 45 mph. Greyhounds are sprinters, not distance runners. Our racing pup gets all of her energy out in a matter of minutes at the dog park in a blur running around the perimeter or in a slow walk with me, because she has to sniff everything. She even sniffs the same spots on the way back, just in case she misses some sort of secret doggie message. Needless to say, when I’m preparing for a race, I can’t train with her. On particularly sniffy days, a half mile has taken us half an hour and I have no true idea of my own speed. She is a queen and I’m supposed to stop for her, not her follow me. I’ve seen the disdain in her eyes when I’ve tried to walk more than two and a half miles with her. No matter how she exercises, she sleeps all day following her effort. Her speed is a good one for us, though she might not feel the same about me!

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