Doomed

...A man walked to the far side of the starting line and shouted something at the crowd. They all turned away from the warm spot to look at him as he howled a word… then another… then another… When he barked the loudest word of all, the pack spilled over the starting line where they turned back into individual runners. I shook the wet out of my fur one last time and waited for the last person to cross the line so Mom would tell me to on-your-mark, get-set, go. 

Tripping someone with your leash is a foul, so Mom made me give everyone a head start. Mom’s loser attitude isn’t such a handicap in a road race, where there’s space for many people to run side-by-side. But on a trail that only fit one runner at a time, getting stuck behind the wrong runner could turn the best part of a race into a walk. Good thing I knew how to use the course to my advantage. I leaned hard into my collar, zigzagging around the competition. 

“Make way!” I wheezed. “Comin’ through!”

Instead of tripping my rivals, I used the leash on the curves to edge them into bushes. On a normal run I would have stopped to let them pet me, but dogs know the difference between a run and a race by instinct. I stuck my nose into the cracks between runners and wedged them apart like a cannonball, dragging Mom apologizing through the hole behind me. When the trail was an Oscar-wide line of mud and puddles, I sped up to claim the solid mud so my competition would get puddle in their socks. Anyone who stepped back onto the trail too soon was fair game for my leash, which I stretched high and long back to Mom like a clothesline. 

Right when I’d cleared the perfect spot in the pack with no one too slow ahead and no one too fast behind, the trail-choking trees parted and the runners ahead slammed to a stop. Ahead, the sand was piled so high that it filled the whole world. Runners plodded single-file up its face in a curling line toward the clouds. This must be the doom the Witch used to lure Mom here. 

I charged up the hill, trying to make up for Mom’s plodding pace, but the sand spread and smeared under my paws, making her too heavy to move. No matter how hard I pulled, the sand just sagged underneath me like a dreadmill so that each leaping bound just brought me back to Mom’s side. I pulled mightily until the trees were below us, and then I pulled some more. I hauled Mom up the doom until there was nothing in the world but sand and sky. 

As suddenly as it started, there was a crease in the sand and the doom ended. On the far side, the first rays of sun fell from the clouds onto a dry, sandy sea so vast that it filled the world in every direction. Runners fanned out of each other’s way and bounded down the steep slope in whooping leaps. Mom swung her free knee like a jet booster as she leapt into empty space. She hung in midair for a long moment before her foot fell from the knee like landing gear and she touched down, letting the sand cushion her fall before launching the other leg into another falling leap. I followed, whole legs disappearing as the dooms caught my tremendous speed. 

At the foot of the doom, my body settled to a stop but my insides were still weightless. Being surrounded by so many Friends, the thrill of the race, learning to fly… I couldn’t contain the excitement any longer. I stopped mid-stride and squatted. 

Mom stopped behind me, scanning for looky-loos. “Good thing I brought a bag,” she said out loud, which was strange. Mom and I didn’t need words to communicate, so the only times she ever aimed her voice at me were when she was giving orders. But it’s rude to boss someone around when they’re going potty. Most of the time, Mom only talked out loud when she wanted other people to hear her. “Ah! Here it is.” She shook out the bag like a magician pulling a handkerchief out of his sleeve.

“That’s just for sidewalks,” I whispered. “You don’t have to pick up poo when we’re on a trail, remember?”

“You just took a dump in the middle of the race course with a dozen witnesses.” Mom looked around trying to catch a witness’s eyes as she fitted the bag over her hand like a puppet. 

“Running away is what you’re supposed to do in a race.” I blasted off in a post-poo sprint, but the leash held me fast. “Come on! Let’s flee the scene. It’ll be fun.” 

“Oh great. I can’t wait to carry this poop all the way to the next aid station.” Mom paused to give someone time to laugh. When no one did, she moved the conversation back inside her head where only I could hear. 

The pack broke up like the clouds and spread out across the sand until we were practically alone under the strengthening sun. With the sand swallowing Mom’s footsteps, only the rustling of the poop bag told me that she was still behind me. Instead of a trail, we followed a never-ending series of posts sticking like buoys out of the sand. They were spread out so that each buoy seemed like the last until you were close enough to sniff it. Only then would another appear in the distance, the ribbon on its tip fluttering against the sky. 

On every climb, Mom shook the fist holding the poop bag and whispered threats about the nasty things she would do if the dooms didn’t cut it out. Mom often confuses planning with predicting and thinks that she can shame the world into amomodating her plans if she can just prove it wrong. When growling didn’t work, she bargained like the earth had made a promise with its fingers crossed behind its back and she could still change its mind. At long last, the dooms gave in to Mom’s dragon voice and retreated into the trees.

“Finally!” Mom gasped. “It feels like we’ve been wandering through the desert for 40 years.”

“Trees don’t grow in sand,” I agreed. I thought I heard a snicker, but maybe it was just the wind rustling through the leaves. 

The sand lay in ambush among the roots, less steep than before, but just as deep. Everywhere we ran it was sand, sand, sand. No trash cans, no water bowls. Nothing but sand. Now that the sun was out, there was no time to dawdle. Even in the trees its gooey, sluggish heat stuck to my back and made it feel like I was running through syrup. I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth and let it flap as I jogged.

Eventually, we reached the only road of the day. A glorious, swimming-pool-sized puddle glistened in the middle of the block-long strip of asphalt. Puddle water doesn’t bother me, but Mom is more squeamish.

“Eew, don’t drink that,” Mom said. “You shouldn’t drink water with rainbows in it.”

I’m colorblind and don’t believe in grey-nbows. “This is no time for your superstitions,” I slurped. “There’s plenty here for the both of us.” I waited a moment for her to join me, but Mom is stubborn. “Suit yourself,” I shrugged, and drank my fill.

The road led into a car kennel. Mom took the lead, pulling me on the leash for the first time all morning. “Hallelujah! A trash bin,” she said, holding out the sad, mashed bag. 

The trash can closed its mouth with the same sound that jail cells make. When Mom turned to face what was beyond the car kennel, her face made the expression of someone on the wrong side of the bars. A trail-marking ribbon flapped from a stick stuck in a beach covered in—what else?—deep sand. Mom made a whimpering sound and staggered onto the beach. 

Mom almost never runs with a water bottle, especially in a race, when people volunteer to serve her. But we’d been wandering through dry sand all morning without aid. Perhaps I should have insisted that she drink out of the puddle. 

I was starting to wonder whether a tongue could get sunburned when I spotted a shelter in the distance and caught the faint smell of fresh water. I gave Mom a catch me if you can look and led the way. Mom’s ragged breath behind me proved that she was lying about feeling too tired to run anymore.

Under a canopy, a picnic table overflowed with treats like pretzels, peanut butter sammiches, M&M’s, and chopped-up granola bars. Like a gentleman, I let Mom do the begging while I sat in the shade waiting for her to bring me a snack. But even with everything her heart desired spread out in front of her, Mom hesitated to touch any of it.

Her pincher fingers pulled a single chip out of its bowl like a Jenga piece. She held it up to her face, but her mouth wouldn’t open. She offered it to me instead. “Do you want a potato chip? I probably shouldn’t eat anything someone else might have touched.” She pointed a longing look at the trail mix before reaching past it to pick up a banana instead. 

Mom scraped her tongue across her lips as she watched a creature wandering among the picnic tables. The creature looked just like a man, except that he had pitchers at the end of his arms instead of paws. Inside Mom’s thought bubble, I watched her tackle him, rip his pitchers from his arms, and pour both of them greedily down her throat. Mom tore her shark eyes off the creature, pointed them at the lady behind the table, and hid her bloodthirstiness behind a smile. “Do you have any cups?” she asked politely.

 “I’ve got just the thing,” the lady said, picking up peanut butter jars and jelly knives until she found a rubbery bag about the shape of a tube sock. It dangled like a dead fish as she held it out. 

Mom held up the sack by the stiff ring at the top and inspected the sad, floppy pouch dangling from it. “So I’m supposed to drink out of this?”

“It’s reusable,” the lady said, like it was a priceless treasure and Mom wasn’t worthy. “It’s made to fold up easily into a pocket while you run.”

Mom relaxed. “So I get to keep it? Thank you.” 

The woman stiffened in the way people do when they find out that Mom is a selfish person who is only acting polite to deceive them. “Ed can fill it for you, but you’ve got to give it back when you’re done.”

This wasn’t the first time that Mom had made the mistake of believing that helpers would help her, too. Today, the help was meant for people who brought their own bottles. It’s awkward for everyone when you accidentally try to take help meant for someone else, which is why Mom tries to never rely on anyone. Just in case.

“Is it, like… um… has someone else… erm…” Words spun through Mom’s thought bubble as she tried to find the combination that didn’t sound ungrateful.

“She’s asking if it has cooties,” I translated.

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t bring their own bottle and expect us to provide one along the course.” The woman shook her head to show what she thought of litter bugs like Mom.

“I’m not surprised. The question is, why are you?” Mom said in her head, where only I could hear her.

“Is there any water for me?” I panted.

When the lady looked from Mom’s sour puss to my grin, her smile got as big as her face. “Hi there, big guy! There’s a dog bowl right over there.” 

Eddie Pitcher Hands slopped water from his paws into the sack. Mom dragged her goopy tongue over her lips again and lifted it toward her mouth.

“No, Mom! The boogeyvirus!” I reminded her. “Don’t do it. You’ll die!” 

“Ssssh!” Mom thought at me. “That was down in San Francisco. I’m sure it’s not in Oregon yet…” 

She closed her eyes and drank the water down. She looked at the last jellybean of water at the bottom of the sock and only hesitated for a moment before asking Eddie Pitcher Hands for a refill. She didn’t even hesitate before asking him to fill it the third time. 

When she was finished, Mom gave the pouch back for the next thirsty runner and turned her attention to the unprotected snacks. All the runners ahead of us had already used their paws to wipe slime off of their faces before sticking those same paws into these bowls and stirred them around. Mom looked at the pretzels and M&Ms as if one of them might bite her. She carefully picked up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich by the crust and took a delicate bite.

We left the boogeysnacks and ran through miles, and miles, and miles, and miles, and miles, and miles (six more of them) of sand. We ran on beach sand, grass sand, and woods sand. By the time we got back to Eddie Pitcher Hands, Mom looked like a cartoon crawling tongue-out through the desert. This time she didn’t even ask before reaching across the table for the drinking sock and slurping down water as fast as Eddie Pitcher Hands could pour. 

By the time we emerged from the sandy forest back into the sea of dooms, the excitement was gone for me, too. Dogs can’t smell the future like people can, so all I had to do was worry about putting one paw in front of the other until someone told me I was done. Since Mom could count the gap between her and the future, each of her steps was burdened with the distance still to go. We trudged on without a thought of running as the weight of all of Mom’s steps not yet taken added to the sorrows of all the steps behind. The sun had long ago erased all signs of the morning’s rain from the sky, and I missed Eddie Pitcher Hands. 

“How far have we gone?” I asked when even Mom’s thought bubble was silent.

“We just hit 13.1 miles,” she sighed. “If this were a half marathon we’d be done by now.” 

When Mom seemed ready to crawl on all fours like a sensible runner I asked, “It’s not much longer, right?” 

“We’ve gone 15.5 miles!” she moaned in despair. “It should be over now.” 

“But look, it’s not over yet.” I looked at the next far-off sand buoy to show her what I meant.

“This isn’t right!” Mom snarled like she wanted to teach someone a lesson. Since I was the only one around, she taught me a math lesson. “25K is only supposed to be 15.5 miles. No more, no less. We should be done by now! But there was almost a mile of trail through the trees before the dunes and I can’t even see the damned trees, which means we’ve still got a mile to go. At least!”

“But Mom, nature doesn’t come in units that are the same every time. You can’t make the finish come closer just by counting.” 

“Okay, fine. It’s not the course that’s too long, it’s the measurement that’s wrong. If your race isn’t 25K, then call it a 27K, or whatever distance it actually is. That’s the agreement!”

Sometimes Mom’s rules make my head spin. “What do you do when someone breaks an agreement?” 

“The agreement ends and you don’t have to do your part anymore.” 

“So if you agreed to run twenny-five killmometers, and we’ve run twenny-five killmometers, then I guess we’re all done. Shall we have some drinks and snacks?” 

“The drinks and snacks are at the finish!” Mom howled. “They tricked us and now we have to keep running against our will. There’s no justice in this world!”

“I know how to fix it,” I said. “How about we decide to keep running because we want to?” 

“But I don’t want to. I just want it to be over.” 

“Well that’s your problem.” 

“It is a problem! The laws of math and science are what hold the world together. You can’t just decide that your kilometers are 15% longer today. It’s… it’s…”

“Lawless?” I suggested.

“Exactly!” She scowled, retreating back inside her head.

If you’re not a runner, you may not know that almost there is a lot closer to the finish line than most people expect. Almost there doesn’t come when you’ve got more distance behind you than what remains, and it’s not the last mile. Every step in a race adds to the tiredness of the last, so the struggle grows as the distance left to run shrinks. You are always in the hardest moment of the race as long as there are more moments ahead.

Almost there is the place where you finally see the finish line and all the soreness goes on mute. Your suffering bursts like a blister. Relief drowns out the tired as you outrun your misery and the whole world cheers for you. Then you cross the finish line and the tired catches you and turns you into roadkill. 

We weren’t almost there yet when trees appeared at the foot of the final doom. The course continued to put killmometers between us and the finish, and Mom filled them each with curses. I almost thought we were there when I spotted the first car through the trees, but the trail curled up on itself to squeeze even more killmometers in the space it still had. 

Mom tallied up the race’s broken promises as we ran the long way round the car kennel. “We’ve run more than 17 miles through deep sand and now they’re making us run around in circles?”

“And look! After a three hour tour, we’re right back where we started,” I marveled.

“More like 6 hours. It’s like they’re tacking on distance just to mess with us.”

Finally, we rounded the last bend to almost there and I crossed the finish line to the thundering applause of the two people who noticed.

On the far side, someone finally handed Mom a cup-shaped glass of her very own. She staggered toward the tanks, filled the cup and emptied it down her throat, refilled it, and held it down for me. When my tongue could no longer reach the water at the bottom, she refilled it and took another turn herself. When we’d both drunk enough to leave water in the cup at the end of our turn, Mom led me back to the Covered Wagon.

I wanted to lay down and take a nap, but no one can sleep through the tussle of Mom changing clothes in the Wagon. She dug through the suitcase like a dog on a beach, throwing t-shirts, sweatshirts, dry socks, and clean underwear over her shoulder. Once she’d found all the ingredients for a new outfit, she peeled off her soggy shirt, squirmed out of her wet sports bra, and wrestled a clean one over her sticky skin. She leaned back to lift her hips enough to pull off her shorts, kicked her legs, and wriggled the sweatpants back over her hips. When she was finally dressed again, she leaned away one final time to put her soggy clothes in the laundry bag. I stretched out in bed and closed my eyes. 

The door rumbled open and I waited for the driving hum of the Wagon to lull me into a long nap. But the door didn’t slam shut again. 

I opened one eye to see Mom waiting expectantly at the door. “Are you coming?” 

“I’m sleeping.” 

“I’ve got a surprise for you. A real treasure.” 

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