Ode to Gibby and His Dad

🐾 On running toward healing, one pawprint at a time

Not long ago, I found myself in a place that felt uncomfortable. My energy was very low. My body ached in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge, and I felt rather hopeless and uncertain. I wasn’t sure what was shifting—only that something needed to. I didn’t know yet that a new chapter was quietly waiting just around the bend.

That is, until Gibby came to stay with me for a week.

 In his usual way—unassuming and full of heart—he brought lightness back into my home. And somewhere in the midst of our time together, I felt a whisper of something I hadn’t felt in a while: desire. I found myself saying, “I want to run with Gibby.”

Not racing. Not chasing. Just keeping pace. To share his joy. To feel that grace.

It wasn’t a goal, exactly—not in the way I’ve set goals before. It was more like a wish. A soft yearning to feel alive again in my body. To move toward something instead of away from discomfort.

 But when I tried to run, my body protested. My knees and ankles pulled me back, and I wondered if it was foolish to even try. Was it my old shoes? Or something deeper?

I mentioned it to my brother—Gibby’s dad. We chatted about what might help, including shoes that would better support where I was now. That small conversation was its own form of encouragement—quiet, steady, and just enough to keep me moving forward.

So I started looking and finally found the right pair. And that’s when something shifted. Not all at once, but enough.

And then came the invitation—one that felt equal parts daunting and intriguing:

“Join us? Macklind Mile Water Bowl Run.”

It wasn’t about a race. It was about listening to something deeper that said, “Let’s see.”

The poem that follows is a love note—to Gibby, to my brother, and to the new version of me that decided to try.

Ode to Gibby and His Dad

by Beth Riedler

I said one day, “I want to run

 Beside sweet Gibby in the sun. 

Not racing fast, just keeping pace—

 To share his joy, to feel that grace.”

But when I tried, my body cried,

 My knees and ankles pulled aside.

 I paused, unsure—was this a sign?

 Old shoes, I thought—could that be why?

I told my goal to Gibby’s dad—

 My brother, calm, not quick to add.

 He heard my dream, I couldn’t lose:

 Within two days I had new shoes.

And oh, the change! A lighter stride—

 But still my body balked inside. 

Then came the ask, well, just for fun:

 “Join us? Macklind Mile Water Bowl Run.”

At first I thought, “No, not for me.”

 But somewhere deeper said, “Let’s see.”

 “It’s just a mile,” I told my doubt,

 Then laced my shoes and ventured out.

Each humid day, I gave my best,

 Though legs and lungs were put to test.

 Just days away, not quite a mile—

 Still, I showed up with a stubborn smile.

Then race day came—clear, bright, and hot.

 St. Louis served its summer lot.

 Would Gibby run? His eyes said, “Yes!”

 With bounding heart and tail’s finesse.

He ran with joy, his dad in stride,

 While I trailed gently, beaming wide.

 I whispered, “You can do this, too.”

 And step by step, that thought rang true.

The hill seemed long, the sun was bold,

 But I pressed on, my courage told.

 And when that finish line drew near,

 I crossed it full of pride and cheer.

I ran with Gib—well, sort of so—

 And felt a kind of inner glow.

 For though I lagged, I didn’t quit.

 I showed up whole—and gave my grit.

So thank you, Gibby. Thank you, bro.

 For helping my new version grow.

 The old me might have stayed in bed—

 But now I rise, and run instead.

A New Kind of Mile

The Macklind Mile wasn’t just about crossing a finish line—it was a reminder that even slow, imperfect steps can carry us forward.

It was about joy. About listening. About letting the love and presence of those around us—on two legs and four—gently lift us into becoming who we’re ready to be next.

It was about remembering that transformation doesn’t always come with a loud voice. Sometimes it arrives as a tail wag. A quiet walk. A new pair of shoes. A little courage.

An Invitation to You

Have you ever found yourself at the edge of a new chapter, unsure whether to say yes?

Did an animal companion help you find your way across that threshold—whether by nudging, gazing, trotting beside you, or simply holding space?

If you’re navigating your own transition—of body, heart, or spirit—and your animal companion is part of that, maybe now is the time to listen more deeply. I’d be honored to hold space with you.