Peggy, An Absolute Unit

A bowling ball, covered in fur.

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Hi there. Thanks for stopping by. If you are new here then let me introduce you to Peggy and Steve. You’ve now met the two most important dogs I know. Today we’ll talk about Peggy. Let’s all take a deep breath and direct our focus on a dog for a moment. But first, an arresting puppy photo (she fell asleep standing up).

Peggy has never been delicate in her movements. Steve levitates; Peggy lumbers. As long as we’ve had her she makes her presence known when she enters a room. With heavy, purposeful paws.

As a puppy, she was a demon on leash. Pulling, always pulling, as if magnetized. A heatseeking fuzz missile locked on her two favorite targets: dog parks and discarded street pizza crust. In wide open spaces she did not run so much as galumph. In Brooklyn, she approached dog parks like a frustrated teen approaches a mosh pit.

But Peggy — despite believing she’s a fur-covered bowling ball — is no beast. As all great mutts are, she’s a bit wonky in her proportions. Her legs are shorter than her torso would suggest. She was quick but not the natural kind, more of the hustle variety. As a teen she was exceedingly lanky and awkward.

Eventually, young adult Pegs grew into herself as a confident, average size brown dog. Always adorable but, crucially, never elegant.

Then came her accident.

Recuperating with the help of peas.

Losing a leg is, at least in theory, a big deal. As a rule, it’s usually supposed to put you out for a few days. Getting back to walking is a ginger process of re-negotiating one’s body and finding new ways to distribute and balance all that dog. Theoretically this might be harder if you are the kind of dog that inspires the use of the adjective “plodding.”

And yet just one day after surgery, to our distinct horror, Peggy not only walked but attempted a maneuver that can only be described as “making a break for it while severely under the influence” What it was she breaking for? The answer is lost to the sands of time. But when we carried her outside and put her down gently on our lawn to do her business (per dog surgeon protocol), she appeared entirely nonplussed by this new development (a missing back right leg) and attempted a series of stubborn hops and skips. We scooped her up and she shot us back a knowing glance.

The bowling ball would return.

Post-rehab, Peggy made up for lost time. This included rekindling a torrid love affair with Montana’s myriad creeks as well as ball throwing and hikes. Not a year later, she made first tracks through 10 kilometers of snow while we gamely cross country skied behind.

On her favorite hike — a steep one mile set of switchbacks that reaches a gorgeous ridge — it becomes clear that Peggy isn’t so much running up the hill as she is doing a series of rapid pull-ups. Her back leg provides her real stability, so she thrusts her front legs forward and claws her bodyweight toward the hillside, over and over and over and over. A determined smile sets across her face and a mischievous glint sets in her eyes. Atop the ridge she pauses for effect, allowing the wind to ripple triumphantly through her distinguished chestnut mane.

Pausing mid-hike for the aforementioned mane display.

It took about six months to notice that Peggy was a different shape. The first real indicator was the noise. Peggy’s usual entrance into a room was of the ‘seen and heard’ variety, which is to say you saw her and heard her paws at the same time. But Peggy 2.0 came with an early detection system. The galumph preceded visual confirmation now by a good five seconds. Heard, then seen.

One could not help but notice a change in heft. In solidity. Peggy was not getting fat. Peggy was getting swole.

Slowly at first and then all at once, Peggy’s build changed somewhat drastically. Her shoulders and torso widened, creating a sharp distinction between her upper body and her tapered hips. Her profile first began to resemble that of an Olympic swimmer and then, something akin to a child’s rendering of Superman. An inverted triangle of a dog. Behold:

Today she is what the internet might affectionately term “an absolute unit.” She is, arguably, faster on three legs than she was on four. In the evenings during her fetch hours she sends clods of dirt and grass into the sky as her front paws dig into the earth. The bowling ball has achieved her final form.

Watching her sprint I feel a strange pride. With each bound, her tongue escapes a bit more from her mouth and waggles proudly in the winter air. Her gallumph is an act of defiance. Always adorable but, crucially, never elegant. I imagine putting my ear to the ground and hearing the echoes of her one very swole dog stampede.

Your faithful correspondent,

Charlie