Bogey was seven weeks old when he nuzzled his Reese’s-peanut-butter nose into my girlfriend’s lap, while she and I—who must have died and gone to heaven—sat in a playpen full of six painfully adorable puppies, each of which could fit in the palm of our hands, deciding which one we’d take home that day.

Bogey played it cool. His brothers and sisters… did not. They—a potpourri of pitbull-boxer mega-mutts, none of whom had the same colorings or markings—crawled over us over-eagerly, their unclipped nails leaving Nazca lines in our skin and their rows of razor-sharp baby teeth gnawing harmlessly into our knuckles. Whereas they yipped and yawed, pandered and pawed, Bogey quietly, slyly wormholed his way into my girlfriend’s lap, and thus into our lives.

Bogey’s eyes, pale-blue as the Caribbean, lethargically blinked, almost like a cow chewing cud. His nose peeled like shaved parmesan with dry skin. He yawned, and it nearly broke our hearts. His paws were soft and pink like strawberry mochi, a far cry from today’s callused leather moccasins. His breath smelled of rose water, a far cry from his current oral aroma of trash and chum.

A dog overlooking a river atop of trail
Soaking in the views. Photo by Ry Glover

It was love at first sight. Bogey was perfect. Then, thirty minutes down the road, the whining began. Then came the trembles. Then more whining. He shook like a chandelier, whimpered with the cries of a thousand heartbreaks.

Those first few months with Bogey were—to put it lightly—hell on earth. He peed everywhere. Pooped everywhere, too. Without warning. Often. He howled like a banshee when we crated him at the foot of our bed. The stubbornness, the sheer stamina, the downright mental grit he displayed in these protests was astounding. He won every time. (He’s a bona fide bed dog now.)

We named him Bogey on account of these transgressions—because he wasn’t quite up to par.

And then—then he became a trail running dog. And on trail, Bogey became a hole-in-one.

The Joys of Trail Running with a Dog

To trail run with a dog is to reap the trifecta of human enlightenment: physical labor, emotional bond, spiritual awakening.

For starters, there are the endorphins. Trail running by itself, of course, comes fully loaded with this feel-good hormone. But with a dog, like some sort of four-legged gas to a flame, these feel-good chemicals only intensify.

There’s nothing quite like slogging up a 1,000-foot climb, with the lactic acid squeezing at your quads and calves, the walls caving in on your lungs, the mental demons harassing you, whispering devilishly for you to stop and walk, only for you to then push through the pain barrier, reach the summit not just intact but invigorated, appreciate the sprawling summit views for a moment before barreling down the trail at breakneck speed.

Now… combine all that with a dog.

He’s with you through it all, a counterpart angel to your preexisting shoulder devil, expressing pure unadulterated gratitude in every step. “This is the greatest day of my life!” he tells you with his eyes. “I can’t believe how good life can be!” he barks. “Why would we ever not go trail running together?” he implores.

Each glance in his direction is jet fuel for you to carry on, keep climbing, keep running, knowing this isn’t just for you—this is primarily for him. This is selflessness in its purest form, nothing contrived about it.

Another simple, life-affirming joy associated with trail running with your dog is the nature therapy. Scientifically speaking, spending time outdoors is good for you. It can sharpen cognition and even improve mental health. In squishy terms, being one with nature, one with your animal best friend, one with your own inner animal instincts, is good for the soul.

In less squishy terms, trail running with a dog is fun. And we could all do with a little more fun.

Born to Run

A puppy sleeping on his side
Bogey was born to be a trail runner. Photo by Ry Glover

As writer Daniel Wallace says, “Dogs have been hanging out with people for over ten thousand years. They are empty vessels we fill with a reflection of ourselves.”

I’m a trail runner. As such, it was imperative to me that my dog would be a trail runner, too. Bogey duly delivered.

His first off-leash run came in Chattanooga—my hometown, a place where I know every trail like the back of my hand, especially the Gum Springs Trail, which I’d once run every day for 30 days in a row. Needless to say, the stage was set for Bogey’s trail running audition. He had his work cut out for him. Would he deliver?

Indubitably. Bogey passed with flying colors (primarily the color green as we whizzed through a tunnel of neon forest during springtime in the Southeast). Part of his success, I think, is rooted in his separation anxiety. He can’t stand to be alone—loses his absolute mind. And so Bogey stayed by my side like glue, desperate to not get left behind, glancing up at me every third stride or so to make sure I was still there, to make sure he was doing this whole trail running thing right. And boy was he.

These days, he exploits his off-leash freedom more and more. He’ll stay behind to sniff on this or pee on that. And of course he’s never met a thorny ravine he wouldn’t hurl himself down. But somewhere deep within him, intuitively, instinctually, he knows not to linger too long, knows that the reason we’re together, here on this trail is partly to stop and smell the roses, of course. But more importantly—it’s to run. And Bogey and I were born to run.

A Few Notes About Off-Leash Trail Running

A dog sniffing along a trail with a sunset and cityscape in the background
Photo by Ry Glover

In truth, off-leash trail running has its risks. I get it. Not everyone loves the sight of an off-leash pit mix barreling down the trail through a cloud of dust.

But then again—not everyone has met Bogey. He’s the worst guard dog in the world, a tail wagger to the umpth degree. To me, when you have a dog like this, off-leash trail running isn’t a thing to be frowned upon. It needs to be celebrated, cultivated, shouted about from the highest trail-running summit.

With off-leash trail running, there’s also wildlife to consider. In Tennessee, where I’m from, there’s not much to worry about. Bogey would chase after sounds from within the bushes with the hopeless fury of a snorting bull after a matador. Squirrels and birds would evade his underbrush ambushes with ease. In Southern California, where I live now, there are more sinister creatures lurking in the thistles: rattlesnakes, coyotes, even mountain lions.

Of course, risk is a part of life. To trail run off-leash with a dog is to believe in optimism, to adhere to the age-old mantra that everything will work out. After all, the chances that Bogey is attacked by a mountain lion are far less than the two of us getting into a car crash en route to the trail. And just as we could all do with a little more fun in life, we could all use a little more optimism, too. 

*It's important to comply with any rules or regulations that are in place in your area when you take your dog on the trail. Additionally, always be conscious of other pets when on the trail - as your off-leash dog might be friendly but on on-leash dog might not be!*

The Adventures and Misadventures of Bogus

A dog running on a nature trail overlooking a cityscape
Bogey in his element. Photo by Ry Glover

Bogus is what we call Bogey when his lip accidentally gets curled up under his teeth. Or when he snores with his mouth open or begs for food or whines for attention or worse howls to high heavens when we leave him at home alone. Bogey has his Bogus moments on trail, too.

During one recent trail run, Bogey happened upon a coyote squatting in the brush, and spooked it. I was fifteen yards ahead when I turned around to see Bogey, in full sprint, eyes white with terror, tail tucked so far under his belly that it poked him in the chin, sprinting with all his might away from this mangy wolf-dog hot on his heels. Bogey stays a little closer to my heels these days… but only a little.

In full sprint, Bogey is a sight to behold. He’s athleticism personified (or dog-ified, I should say). The best is when he lingers behind by a few hundred yards to sniff something. Then, he’ll look up, realize how far ahead I’ve gotten, and bolt. He’ll come careening around a bend in the trail, kicking up a tornado of dust, his shoulder muscles bulging, his tongue flailing to one side like a Fruit by the Foot, a toothy grin beaming across his face, a glint in his eyes. His 40 yard dash would be Hall of Fame status.

The only word I can think of to adequately describe the feeling I feel for Bogus in these moments is love.

Closing Thoughts

To say that trail running with a dog is the secret to happiness might be an overstatement. But only slightly.

The truth is, trail running with a dog is one of life’s greatest joys. And, to me at least, the best barometer for a life well-lived is a worn-out pup on your hands at the end of each day. Here’s to wearing out your pup each day.