Nanook has his head perched on my leg, his eyes shooting back and forth between the dessert on the table and me.
"No, I take that back," Nook's ears perk up as my fork picks up some chocolate that's fallen on the plate, "We're going to run a 5k. You and me. We're gonna find a local race, start training tomorrow," I look at the workout gear on the participants, "and buy sweat bands."
He huffs, then devours some crumbs I carelessly dropped on the ground.
"It will be good for us to finish something," I say, glancing at the half-painted bedroom, the half-read book, and half-finished homework in front of me. Then I exclaim, "Oh my God, I can't believe she GAINED weight this week. She's not working hard enough,"and take another bite of pie.
The next day, when I come home, Nanook refuses to get out from underneath my bed. He's shoved his body far enough underneath the frame so only his tail is peaking out from underneath the red comforter. I coerce him out with Spicy Nacho Doritos, then put my running shoes on.
We start off small - a fast-paced walk - and 'Nook seems to be enjoying himself. His nose is up in the air, his nostrils flaring to take in the new smell. His poofy tail blows in the wind, a beautiful sight juxtaposed with the long piece of drool starting to dangle from his mouth.
When we turn out of Stadium Walk onto Lanier Drive, I decide to step it up a bit and start jogging. Nanook stares up at me, then down at his feet, then up at me again.
"You can do it 'Nook," I cheer, "We aren't even running fast," and pull the leash as motivation.
We jog down to the stop light, and I notice the leash is extended as far as it can go. For most dog owners, this would mean they were being dragged by their dog, who wants nothing more than to run as fast as it can. But I am not most dog owners, because I own Nanook.
'Nook is a food-stealing dog-ninja. He's the dog who ate a fondant Wii remote I made for one of my friends groom's cake. He's the dog who once ate a stick of butter I left out on the kitchen counter. And now, he's the dog who is so out of shape that he's running a full leash-length behind me. In order to keep my pace, I have to fully extend my arm backwards.
"Come on 'Nook," I yell, more worn out from tugging him than running, "Let's go! Let's go!"
But Nanook, in a pure moment of fatty frustration, ignores my motivational comments and sits down.
"'Nook, what are you doing?" I tug on the leash, "Get up."
He lays on the cement. We have not even gone half of a mile, and my dog has decided he's had enough. We have a stare-off, and I try to encourage him.
"'Nook, it's not even that far back."
He glares at me.
"Seriously, 'Nook."
Again, nothing.
"Seriously. You need to get up."
I tug at the leash, until I force him off the pavement, back in the direction of home. He huffs, and I continue walking and tugging the entire way back to the apartment. When we get in the door, he rushes to his water bowl, and laps up the entire thing like he just got done with an Ironman triathlon, and defeated, I get out another piece of peanut butter pie.
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