HE WAS mad. Really mad. Mad at a life that had given him, a fierce brave male dog, the wimpy, effeminate name of Muffette. An owner who would do something like that should be ticketed for animal cruelty. Muffette, for crying out loud. This was strike one.

If the name wasn’t bad enough, this past weekend had been the biggest, baddest weekend of the year for local dogs. It was the weekend of the annual “hunt,” the staged opportunity to chase a fox until either you or the fox dropped. There was not a single doubt in Muffette’s mind that he was capable of catching any fox in the county, but his master had picked his farm-dog rival, Bozkatz, for that honor, while Muffette had been left home. This was strike two.

So, there Muffette sat, on a beautiful sunny October day, wallowing in grief and self-pity, left alone to guard the farm while Bozkatz was up at the house sleeping off an overfeed of Kibbles’n Bits and no doubt dreaming of chasing the fox over and over like the rerun of a favorite scene from a movie. Meanwhile, Muffette moped and stewed.

And then suddenly perked up. Because out there, on the horizon, he began to make out the unmistakable forms of a half-dozen tasty runners. And these runners had dared to venture onto his driveway. The gods had made up for the fox hunt slight. Oh, yes. Those runners were about to be taken out. Strike three.

Muffette held himself in check as the runners came closer. Every nerve in his taut body tingled with anticipation. Oh, yes.

* * * *

It was a pristine, absolutely gorgeous fall day: the kind of day when the air is crisp and electric, the sky a bluer blue than normal, nature in all its fabled glory. The long run toward the annual fall marathon was just completed, and we’d discovered a beautiful dirt road we could use for our warm-down. This road looked like something out of Gone With the Wind, the way it meandered under the lush canopy of leaves in the autumn process of changing to scarlet and gold. The soft dirt, the gentle gravel, the light autumn breeze were balms to our tired legs. Everything combined in the moment to create one of those classic runner’s highs that makes you fall in love with the sport of marathoning all over again.

In a little while, a farm house came into view, and we realized the gentle dirt road was actually a driveway. On the left was a wide field where a cow browsed. What a beautiful day to enjoy a connection with nature. But then . . .

* * * *

Like an ebony lightning bolt, Muffette exploded across the field. He muscled his way under the fence, his high-pitched bark startling the peace of the moment. Immediately realizing Muffette’s evil intentions, one of my friends tried the impossible: to reason with the enraged mutt. “Go home!” he yelled at the charging dog. “Go away!”

Yeah, right. His blood up, and with a juicy target in sight, Muffette charged on. It did cross our minds that surely a dog this small wouldn’t keep this behavior up for long. If only we could turn and scat, he’d leave us alone.

Wrong! Muffette was on a rampage. He’d show his owner he was faster, stronger, and more worthy than that sluggard Bozkatz! He could already taste the meaty calves of the trespassers.

Muffette bared his teeth and charged faster.

* * * *

“Get out of here!” the tailmost runner yelled, turning to face the charging beast. But Muffette kept coming. My friend threw a stone at the dog, but this seemed only to goad him on to greater efforts. I was already farther down the road. Some warm-down, I was thinking. It had turned into an all-out sprint. I vaguely remembered that I was nursing a slight injury, but fear tends to have a fabulous numbing effect on pain. “He’s still coming!” I heard one of my friends yell from behind.

I was sure the dog would attack the hindmost, and at that moment I very much appreciated my friend’s chivalry in trying to chase the dog away while I escaped. After all, I had an Olympic Marathon Trial to run this coming winter. I suddenly remembered a story I’d heard of a dog attack on seven-time Boston Marathon winner Clarence DeMar as he was preparing for Boston one winter. A shudder ran through me. And then to my horror, I heard: “He’s between us and gaining on you!”

For some reason known only to Muffette, he’d zeroed in on my calves. I turned and saw him coming. I put on a surge, but I could hear his claws striking the gravel behind me as he closed on me.

“Here he comes! Run, Laurie!!!”

Then, amidst the dog’s frantic barking, my friends’ shouts, and my own screaming, I heard a car approaching.

“Muffette, get over here,” a voice boomed from a big sedan. I turned in time to see Muffette dart off the road and into the bushes. His owner had come to retrieve him, and he knew he was in trouble.

* * * *

I bent over, completely spent from the sprint. My friends caught me and for a moment we were quiet except for our frenetic breathing. After a moment of regathering our wits, one of the wits in our group made a bizarre observation: “That was a great workout!”

And it had been. Sure, dogs are unpredictable, and yes, we could have been mauled, but we see ourselves, our little group, as the marathoning gladiators, and you’ve gotta love it when you get a little unexpected speed workout.

Thanks Muffette. I’ll remember your help on February 26th.

Editor’s note: Laurie Parton (formerly Corbin) wrote this piece for us late last fall. Ironically, in the early morning of January 24 of this year, while on a training run, Laurie was struck from behind by a car. She suffered a broken nose, a herniated disc in her neck, two black eyes, a fractured skull, and she lost 25 percent of her blood. She was released from the hospital the following day and jogged through an 18-minute workout in order to keep a five-year running streak alive. She had qualified for the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials with a 2:49 at the 1998 Ocean State Marathon and was determined to get back into training for the Trials in spite of the accident. She finished 77th in the Trials in a time of 2:56:02. In April Laurie won the New Jersey Shore Marathon in a new course record.