My Life as a Human Sled ... or How I Survived Eight Years With a GSP

With Cassie and my son Liam on a recent camping trip to Maine

People sometimes ask me how I’ve managed to stay so thin over the years.

I tell them that I am fortunate—or cursed, depending on how you look at it—to have a very dedicated personal trainer. Seven days a week, sun or rain or snow, my four-legged trainer is pulling me away from my desk for our nearly mile-long walk around the neighborhood.

I use the term “walk” loosely here. With my personal trainer, there is no dawdling, no stops along the way to admire the scenery. Most of the time, in fact, I feel like the human equivalent of a dog sled at the end of a rope, except I’m hitched not to a pack of Huskies but to a single, very muscular German Shorthaired Pointer who is on a mission to track down every squirrel and grass-chewing bunny rabbit along the way.

This scene gets repeated every couple of hours from six-thirty in the morning until nine o’clock at night, while in between I try to get a little work done. In a typical day, I will log more than 12,000 steps on my Fitbit. By the end of the day, all I want to do is plop down in front of the TV and watch a mindless Netflix show before staggering upstairs to bed.

Little did I know when I brought Cassie home eight years ago that I would be embarking on a non-stop Iditarod race where I would be both the driver and the sled. I’d never owned a GSP before and knew only that I wanted a dog that would match my active lifestyle.

I was leaning toward getting a Labrador (a good friend owned one and loved it) when one fateful day I was walking through the local Home Depot and came upon a nice couple who were walking their beautiful GSP. This dog, they told me, was one of three purebred GSPs they owned, one of which—their sweet, sable-coated Bella—they were planning to breed for the first time.

Before I knew it, I was over at the couple’s house signing up for one of Bella’s upcoming brood of puppies. Rachael, being smarter than I am, did her best to talk me out of it. “You’re going to get one of those dogs?” she asked me later that night after seeing the three GSPs race around the couple’s house like a pack of hyenas.

Yes, I replied stubbornly. I wanted a GSP, and no one was going to talk me out of it.

Now, anybody who has owned a GSP will tell you the first three years of ownership are the toughest. That’s when the cute puppy you bring home turns into a real-life velociraptor—bounding over furniture, burrowing its paws into upholstery, snapping its razor-sharp teeth at anyone and anything in its path.

Then there’s the GSP/velociraptor’s unsettling trait of occasionally stopping to stare at you, head cocked, as if it has you figured out and is thinking maybe of eating you along with your slipper.

Training, therefore, is essential. Immediately upon bringing home Cassie, I started her on a disciplined training program that involved patiently teaching her to heed the basic commands of “come,” “sit,” “stay,” and “down,” without which the house would have quickly descended into a home version of Jurassic Park.

I also tried to teach Cassie how to heel by my side as we walked. That was important because this dog, even when a puppy, was strong. Walking her around the block was like having a live tuna on the leash as she yanked me in every which direction.

For three years, I did everything I could think of to get her to act like a civilized dog during our walks, including working with an outside trainer. But hard as I tried, I could never get Cassie to stop pulling, and eventually the only thing I found to be helpful in controlling her was investing in a gentle leader, which works by pulling a dog’s head to the side when she pulls on the leash. (A huge thank you to whoever invented this life-saving collar.)

Even today, at the age of eight, Cassie, with her incredible muscular strength, continues to pull me sled-like around the block, especially when we first step out the front door (i.e., the gate) and it’s off to the races. But at least now she doesn’t pull me from side to side like she used to, and with the gentle leader, I’m able to keep her from yanking my arm out of my socket.  

So those are the bad parts of owning a German Shorthaired Pointer. Let me get to the good parts, which far outnumber the bad.

Cassie is the best dog I’ve ever had.

She’s smart. She’s super sweet. She’s loving. She’s loyal. She listens incredibly well to commands (except for “heel”).

She’s goofy and is forever making us laugh.

She’s a fantastic companion, including on travel. Cassie has gone with me on camping trips from Maine to Colorado.

And, perhaps most important, she keeps me healthy. Beyond the mental and emotional benefits of owning a dog, research shows that man’s best friend also helps keep us healthier as we age by getting us off the couch. It’s good for the joints (motion is lotion!) and it’s good for the heart. My doctor tells me that my blood pressure and resting heart rate are both excellent for someone my age. And despite an insatiable sweet tooth, I’m able to keep to pounds off.

I’m convinced that Cassie makes me a better writer too. Invariably when I find myself getting stuck on something I’m writing, I’ll go out with Cassie and voila!--the solution comes to me.

Still, owning a GSP isn’t for everyone. Cassie is—as Rachael is always reminding me—a lot of dog. Bring a GSP puppy into your house and along with the love and the laughs and the exercise, you will also be groaning at the trail of busted furniture and lamps and storm doors left behind as your crazy velociraptor does zoomies around the house.

It’s crazy, really. But I wouldn’t give it up for the world.

As for Rachael ... well, she has come to love Cassie and accept, grudgingly, all the chaos and the Cassie hairs that the dog leaves behind. She has made it clear, though, that there will be no more GSPs in our future.

Yes, dear, I nod dutifully. We will see about that. :)