Remy and I are running up “the big hill.”

I consider myself fit, this mountain says otherwise.

My quads struggle to lift me, my mouth’s wide open, I’m stomping around. My face, a tomato. Half way up. Almost there …

My weimaraner?

He pitter-patters. A ghost just ahead. Not panting. Mouth closed. It’s like he has no need for oxygen. The weight of a feather.

I think he’s tip-toeing!

At the top, he’s zig-zagging, tracking, peeing on things.

I’m standing there, amazed my heart can beat so hard.

And I’m certain my dog didn’t notice the climb.

Didn’t even notice.