31.1 Miles.
10 Hours.
Two Dogs.

We packed the truck days before. Every bag, every boot, every jar of peanut butter and tin of sardines. Race morning came fast. The alarm went off before the sun, and I sat there in the dark for a minute — just me and two sets of eyes looking up at me, tails already going.

They always know.

We pulled up to the race, set up our station, and I stood at the start line at 8 AM with 31.1 miles ahead of us and no idea what the day was going to ask of us. All I knew was that we were doing it together.

The Grin & Barrett 50k was run in a backyard ultra format — a 5k loop every hour on the hour, for 10 consecutive hours. 10 loops. 50 pushups after every single one. Then rest. Then go again.

Loop 1 kicked off at 8 AM. Loop 10 started at 5 PM.

Every loop, Moose ran on my left. Maverick on my right. Every loop, we came in around 30–33 minutes and I'd drop to the ground for pushups while two dogs panted and paced beside me. Then we'd sit. Catch our breath. Refuel. And wait for the clock.

I was meticulous about our nutrition — mine and theirs. Every loop, the boys got a small bowl of water with a splash of bone broth. Beef liver treats after each loop. Sardines every couple of rounds. A little peanut butter. I watched their stride. I watched their eyes.

I applied Musher's Secret to their paws every few loops and rotated in their WagWear sport boots to protect what I knew was their biggest vulnerability over distance.

Most people don't think about a dog's paws when they think about endurance. But I've learned — you take care of the details, or the details take you out.

By loop 7, I could feel it. The kind of tired that lives in your bones, not just your legs. The kind of tired where your body starts sending messages your mind has to fight to ignore.

I looked down at them.

They were tired too — I could see it. The panting was deeper. The paws were deliberate. But they never broke stride. They never looked back. They just kept going, because I kept going.

That's the thing about dogs. They don't know how to quit on you.

Loop 9 came and went. And then it was just one more.

Loop 10. 5 PM. 27 miles already in our legs.

I won't pretend I wasn't hurting. I was. But those two boys were right there — steady, faithful, *present* — and there was absolutely no version of that moment where I was going to let them down.

We ran it. We finished it.

31.1 miles. 10 hours. Two dogs who ran every single step.

I've been trying to write this part for a while now.

Moose came into my life three days before my open heart surgery. Three days. At the time, everyone thought it was a terrible idea — a new puppy right before major surgery? But I needed something to come home to. Something that needed me as much as I needed it.

He was there for every slow walk during recovery. Every hard morning. Every day I had to fight just to feel okay.

Then came Maverick — two years later, when I was in the depths of the darkest season of my life. My mental health had hit a floor I hadn't seen coming. I didn't talk about it much. I didn't know how. But getting Maverick gave me something I desperately needed — a reason to get up, get outside, and keep moving forward. He became the final push that started my real journey to recovery.

Moose was there when I had to rebuild my body.

Both of them were there when I had to rebuild my mind.

And on April 18th, 2026, they ran 31.1 miles beside me in 10 hours to prove — to me, and to everyone who asked *"do you really think they can do it?"* — exactly who they are.

I don't have the right words for what these two dogs mean to me. I don't think those words exist. All I know is that the bond between us is the realest thing in my life, and I am better — healthier, stronger, more alive — because of them.