My search for the perfect exercise regimen continues. Since beginning my job at the Danville Weekly in May, it is no longer convenient to attend the 6 p.m. water aerobics classes in Pleasanton. (Water aerobics is ideal – a lot of bang for your buck, you don’t get hot and sweaty, and your body is hidden.) I play tennis every Saturday but am wary of that dreaded profile: the weekend athlete.

Casting about for a form of weekday exercise, my eyes happened upon my dog, Mickey, sitting by my side, gazing up at me hoping for a crumb of affection – or food – or, perhaps, a walk. We found Mickey at a marketplace 14 years ago when we were living in Thailand. My daughter, then 11, fell in love with the darling puppy that looked like a tiny polar beer. The man showed us a photo of an Alaskan Husky, which convinced my husband we should adopt her, since he’d always wanted a big dog.

Everyone had warned us not to buy pets at the marketplace so the next day I brought Mickey to the vet, who gave her a clean bill of health. But the day after that, she became lethargic and little sores broke out on her tummy. This time we brought her to the school of veterinary medicine at Chulalongkorn University where a doctor confirmed the worst: She had distemper. Nonetheless he gave her an IV of fluids and a shot of vitamins, and told us to return the next day. My heartbroken little girl and I brought her home and laid her in front of the air conditioner. On the advice of a nurse friend, I gave her an eyedropper of water every 15 minutes. The next day, the doctor gave her the same treatment. That evening, she sat up, looked around and decided she was fine. I returned her to the clinic again the next day, where a different doctor asked, “Why is she here?” He couldn’t believe his eyes when he checked my story against the chart.

Our miracle puppy never did grow into glorious Alaskan Husky-hood. She stopped at 12 pounds and the vet announced she was a miniature American Eskimo, otherwise known as a Spitz. Mickey has huge black eyes and white fur that stands out as though one paw were permanently stuck in an electric socket. If her eyes meet yours, her tail takes off wagging and spinning, and I swear she smiles.

Weekday walks for Mickey had been outings of a nighttime nature, when after dinner I would feel bad that she had been cooped up all day – on with the leash and out into the moonlight we would go. So why not get up a half hour earlier and take Mickey on a brisk morning walk through the neighborhood? This is the perfect time of year to enact such a plan – the days are long and the weather is perfect at 6 a.m. By December – well, frankly, water aerobics wasn’t so inviting in the wintertime either.

I clocked out two 1.5-mile neighborhood routes on my car odometer – the park loop and the inner loop – figuring each would be a 20-30-minute walk with a small dog. It worked great the first day. Mickey was ecstatic to see me in the morning, fully dressed and carrying her leash. Her energy was boundless as we walked the park loop. Sure there were a lot of stop-and-sniffs and stop-and-eliminates, but, no problem, I spent the time stretching. The first and second weeks went according to plan. She even turned into a doggie dictator: Once I slept in that extra half hour but when I came downstairs she was bouncing off the walls in anticipation of our walk, so I ended up walking her and skipping my leisurely half hour of breakfast and reading the newspapers.

Then last week, my plan went awry. Halfway through our walk, Mickey came to a halt. She stretched up with her front feet on my leg in the universal pet language for “Pick me up!” Then I understood. She was tired. She wanted to be carried. Well, I’d be darned if I was going to “walk the dog” in my arms. I let her rest awhile, then took a shortcut home. Now I’ve charted out a few half loops for us to walk. This is probably the right amount of exercise for Mickey, but not for me. Does anyone know of a local water aerobics class?

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