Scott Linden Outdoors

Buddy in a rare moment of repose.

At puppy class what seemed like eons ago, an instructor said something like “still learning to run,” referring to a young dog toddling/careening across the room. I watched Flick carefully for days after and came to the conclusion he was still learning to run, too. Like a cartoon character, he’d crash headlong into brush, glance off knees, tangle what seemed like five limbs, and trip over imaginary logs … all while going hell-bent for election.

I’ve joked for years about Manny’s field coverage: he’s a linebacker without grace but with plenty of desire, blitzing the field and birds like Dick Butkus. No Baryshnikov, but he gets it done, the polar opposite of his great uncle Buddy. In his prime, wirehair #3 moved with grace, floating over the terrain as if on wings. He more resembled a pronghorn, often racing over the same terrain as those elegant plains animals.

Yesterday Flick took me back a decade to the plains and Buddy in his prime. Stretching for the horizon like a greyhound, rear legs reaching, almost catching his front legs. Watch a National Geographic program on cheetahs hunting zebra and you’ll know what I mean.

He’s learned to run.