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Illustration by Christine Wei
The first time I saw Lindy run, I thought, “That’s my brain.” A blur of motion, legs stretching into the wind, eyes locked on something only he could see. He was the fastest dog in the world, I’d read – retired from the track but still built for speed. I first saw him race across a fenced field, released from the starting box out of pure habit, chasing a lure that wasn’t there.
But fast isn’t always free. Sometimes, speed can feel unpredictable, exhausting and demanding more control than anyone realizes. Watching Lindy, I understood that momentum could be exhilarating, but it could also be a trap.
I know that feeling well.
I was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes at age 11, back in 1967 – the dark ages of diabetes management. No continuous glucose monitors, no insulin pumps, just urine tests and a lot of guessing. Years later, I learned I also had ADHD – a constant push-pull between hyper-focus and forgetfulness. It was like having a Ferrari brain with bicycle brakes, always sprinting ahead but never quite stopping in time.
Then came Lindy – a retired racing greyhound, sleek as a deer, with muscles coiled for speed. When I adopted him, I thought I was rescuing him – from a life of cages and concrete, from the looming possibility of being discarded when he was no longer profitable. But in the end, he rescued me.
We had been together for six years when, one afternoon, we set out for a run along the trails near my home. At first, everything felt effortless – the rhythm of my feet on the ground, the crisp air in my lungs, the way Lindy kept looking back to make sure I was still with him. He ran like he had been born to do nothing else.
One day on our run, I felt a wave of dizziness. My legs faltered. My blood sugar was crashing.
I reached into my pocket for glucose tablets. Nothing. In my rush to get outside, I had forgotten them – a classic ADHD mistake. My mind had hyper-focused on the run, not the prep.
Lindy stopped immediately, ears pricked, sensing something was wrong. He nudged me, then sniffed my empty pocket. His golden eyes locked onto mine as if asking: What do we do now?
And then, Lindy did something extraordinary.
He threw his head back and rooed – a deep, melodic howl that sent chills down my spine. ROOOO! ROOOO! It was as if he were summoning help.
A woman running nearby slowed down.
“Hey! Is he okay?” she asked, eyeing Lindy as he continued his sirenlike call.
I tried to speak, but my lips barely moved.
“Diabetes … low …”
Her face changed instantly.
“Oh – wait! I have something.”
She reached into her running pouch and pulled out a granola bar, pressing it into my hand. With shaking fingers, I tore it open, shoving a bite into my mouth. The sugar hit my bloodstream like fuel to an empty tank.
My vision cleared. My breath steadied.
Lindy finally stopped rooing, his job done. He pressed his warm body against mine, standing guard.
The woman exhaled in relief.
“I think your dog just saved your life.”
I laughed weakly.
“Yeah. He’s fast, but he knows when to stop, too.”
That night, I watched Lindy sleep, his long legs twitching as he dreamed of running. He had spent years on the track, chasing something he would never catch. The irony wasn’t lost on me – I had spent my life chasing control over my blood sugar, my thoughts, my focus. And, like Lindy, I never seemed to catch it.
But maybe control wasn’t the goal. Maybe the real skill was knowing when to stop and rest when to listen, and when to trust.
Lindy twitched again, his legs kicking so fast I joked he’d break my hips if I got too close. On his back, all four legs in the air, he looked magical. I reached over and rubbed his belly.
“Thank you, my dear friend Lindy. I love you forever and a day.”
He let out a soft sigh, his teeth clicking together – one of those funny greyhound habits that sounded like a tiny windup toy. Then, finally, he was still, his body stretching into sleep, breath steady and deep.
The next morning, I packed my glucose tablets first.
Lindy watched, tail wagging, eyes sharp.
He knew we’d run again.
But this time, we’d be ready.
Mark Paull lives in Montreal.