Morning at our household always starts with a howl. Six dogs sleep in various soft spots around the bedroom, and the early risers among them wait for the first stir of the parents up on the bed.

Then Cruz––the old man, who does not know how to howl––hobbles on arthritic legs over to Grete, the leader of the pack, and barks at her. Though Cruz can't howl, he's a stickler for convention. "Oye Oye," he barks. "Six bells. Time to howl." Then Grete raises her nose to the sky and lets out a howl as clear and pure as that uttered by any wolf in the wild. Nobody howls until the leader starts. Then the others chime in––except Cruz, who just continues to bark. To us, they sound like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. To the neighbors, I suspect not.

That's been the routine every day for the past seven years. It's Sunday today, and there was no howl. The last was on Thursday. Now the pack wakes and, with no fanfare, goes about its morning business.

One spring day with all the blue lilacs in bloom, and none yet withered, the leader of the pack left us. Grete had cancer. She fought on through surgery and six months of chemotherapy, but Julie and I knew on Monday she wouldn't last the week.

Cruz awoke on Thursday, made his way to Grete, and barked. She couldn't stand, but she lifted her nose to the sky just the same and howled pure and true. When time came for the morning run (or walk, or whatever you can muster) on our lilac-lined trails, Grete raised herself with a mighty effort and started toward the door. We carried her out to the trails and laid her in a field of grass. She raised her nose and sniffed the air one last morning, and then we brought her home. She was gone in the afternoon.

Julie and I have no children. Those who know us well and have come to our home know how it is with us. If you visit you may sit on any available seat. If the dogs have taken them all, you're welcome to the floor.

Most of our dogs are greyhounds we've adopted, which, like most Slowtwitch readers, come from a racing background and, like some Slowtwitch readers, see their fastest performances in the rearview mirror. (No matter. That just gives us a clearer view of running for the great pleasure it is).

Grete was not a greyhound. Born nine and a half years ago, she and her twin sister Zola were the first of our clan—one a chocolate lab, the other an odd multi-colored creation half her size at birth: two dads, one mom, one litter. Out of the dozen puppies I latched right onto Grete, Julie to the pint-sized Zola. We met these sisters when they were six weeks of age, but we could not take them as we were just leaving for Ironman Hawaii in 1991. Upon our return we called to see if any of the litter were left. By a stroke of good fortune, all were taken except the two we wanted. We took them both, at $25 apiece. No greater bargain was ever struck.

God said to Cain, "You shall be a fugitive and shall wander the earth." There is a different class of soul––one that runs across the earth not as a fugitive, and does not wander aimlessly––the soul that explores the earth out of wonder and joy. I admire these. My wife is one. And her dog, Grete––the only perfect running partner she ever had––was another.

I never knew a dog or person who loved running more. Not sprinting or chasing or hunting. We've got other dogs who specialize in running with a purpose––for doggy "profit"––like running down something to catch and (if we don't get there quickly enough to interdict) eat. Pros, I guess they are. Grete ran with no particular purpose in mind––and that's the best purpose.

Though she could turn on the speed, she rarely did. She just loped along at six- or seven-minute pace––whatever Julie wanted.

She had a trick ankle that would go out on her every so often. Her gimpy ankle was evident while she was among those in her litter––before she grew tall and strong––and maybe that’s why she slipped through the draft to the eleventh round, when we picked her. When her ankle would give out as an adult she'd have to limp home. But when time came for the afternoon run she'd always have made a miraculous recovery.

She was never sick, prior to her ultimate sickness. Never tired. Never wanted a day off. Julie and I never needed to read inspiration stories of dedicated runners. We lived with one.

Many tears have been shed, many more will come. But her legacy is not just tears. She was a hammer and chisel who managed to crack open the granite covering a middle-aged man's heart. As Bruce Cockburn signs: "You tore me out of myself alive." Yes, she's only a dog. But she did that for me, and she does that for me now.