The Observer is a daily print and online newspaper run by students, serving Notre Dame, Saint Mary and Saint Cross. understand us.

I have been running recently. If you follow me on Twitter, you know this is a big deal. After all, I am a former runner who is recovering. Even the smell of freshly cut grass is enough to make my stomach ache-it reminds me of too many high school cross-country races. They brought me incredible pressure.

But there are some places I like: Panther Creek State Park, where our cross country team practiced five times a week, and ran too many miles in the brisk autumn air of Tennessee. The park is a dense hilly forest, scattered with maze of paths, many of which overlook our beautiful (but very brown) Lake Cherokee. All cool kids call it "Black Panther".

It is just across the town, and we are lucky to be so close. When I was a kid, I thought there was only one state park in each state. Over the years, I was extremely proud of our small town-sparsely populated and rich in cattle farms-for getting a place in Tennessee. In the end I learned that this is not the way a state park works, but gratitude still exists. This is the most beautiful place, perfect for a sober run, a takeaway dinner at a picnic table, or a high-speed hike with the overactive Ausiedoodle called Clyde.

So when I went to school in the flat, ugly Indiana (sorry, Indiana), I left a black panther-sized hole in my heart. However, it was not until this fall that I decided to do something about it. 

I launched my map application and started looking for valuable paths. After several unremarkable adventures, I stumbled upon the Bute Lake Nature Reserve.

Boot Lake Nature Preserve is not Panther Creek State Park, but it does not matter. It is flat, marshland, spanning 300 miles, but offers less than 5 miles of trails-however, the limited route still traverses forests, fields, and farmland. The farmland exudes a strong smell of manure. It is located in Elkhart, Indiana, a 45-minute drive from the campus. For humans, there is a small pavilion and a low-capacity parking lot that will never be full. 

But this has nothing to do with humans. Boot Lake Nature Preserve only does what it needs to do: it protects nature. I can also go there for a run-as a treat. Honestly, it is a pleasure to be here.

Even if it’s not about me, I admire Boot Lake because it reminds me of Panther—and, it reminds me of home. Along these trails, along the lake and under the oak tree canopy, it all feels familiar. I went back to Tennessee, in the stupid and boring home that I somehow still love, in a huge state park that we don’t deserve, on a trail where I can close my eyes and run. That's why I drove bravely for 45 minutes.

  So this is where our story begins: Bute Lake Nature Reserve. It's the beginning of October, and it's about 7 o'clock in the evening, and I'm sweating profusely. My four-mile run is almost halfway through. I never regretted it again.

The trail took me into an oval field, surrounded by trees, and winding paths cut into tall grass. Objectively speaking, running in open spaces is the worst-you can always see exactly where you are going and how long you have been away. The endless extension of the front will burn your eyeballs. It laughs at you.

Technically, the reserve closed at 6 pm and I was illegally parked outside its locked entrance-so I was nervous. I am disastrous. My car may be towed away. The sun may go down, and I will get lost on this 300 acres of land. At any time, an angry park ranger can jump off the tall grass and piling me.

So I was nervous, I was sweating, and I was dying. But at least no one else came to see me in this state, right?

Incorrect. At that moment, a tiny brown light spot appeared on the horizon in front of me. It must be a quarter of a mile away, and it is moving. I am not alone here.

Light spots grow legs. It jumped along the path, and it was moving away from me. Overcoming my curiosity, I ran faster.

Suddenly, a spot of light took shape: this was a Yorkie. I rub my eyes. It is still a Yorkie. A whole Yorkshire terrier, physically, wandering in Butte Lake Nature Reserve. It has a collar, but no people can be seen.

Before I had time to think, I started chasing Yorkies. I don’t know what it is—a kind impulse to save a creature in need, I inevitably want to pet every dog ​​I see, or just my brain activates its fight or flight response—but I Love this Yorkie stole my wallet. 

Once I start sprinting, Yorkie will stop. It turned around. It saw me with pure fear in its eyes. It started to run away from me, dashing along the path, and now it is even faster. But I don’t care; I’m speeding up and feel strong. If this is the last thing I do, I will catch this Yorkie.

Just a quick life lesson for you: Yorkie is fast. You may beat your opponent in a boxing match, but don't be too confident in a race. They don't seem to be many, but somewhere in these tiny bodies, they hide jet engines. Turbocharged. 300 horsepower motor. To make matters worse, you have two legs-it has four legs. You do math.

After 30 seconds of fierce chase, I can hardly hold on. I have cramps and I can't breathe. My legs are ready. I think this may be the end.

But this Yorkie has never been better. He is an Olympian. He is Usain Bolt. He is a P90X coach, although he keeps talking, but somehow he will never breathe. He is Rocky Balboa, running up the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

The pain became unbearable. The only thing that keeps my body from breaking down is pure adrenaline, which stems from the original desire to catch this damn dog. But adrenaline can only last so long. 

So I waved my white flag. I stopped, panting heavily, and put my hands on my knees. This is October in South Bend. I am wearing shorts but sweating. I'm dying. I am fighting for my life in Bute Lake Nature Reserve.

I think the Yorkie is running on his hind legs just to mock me. He has never been so happy. He was intoxicated in my pain. He disappeared behind a curve, and I will never see him again. 

That day, when I left the Butte Lake Nature Reserve, there was one less person than when I entered. That Yorkie took away my dignity, and I will never find it again. He slammed me into the locker, called me a nerd, and took my lunch money. He got me back into the heartbreaking pressure of high school cross-country competitions-for this, I will never forgive him.

But I am a good person. Faced with injustice, I stepped forward. That night, when I got home, I went to work. I called the Humane Society of Elkhart County. They were closed. So I found the next best thing: a Facebook group called "Elkhart County Lost and Found Pets," a vibrant community of pet owners and allies united for the common good. I told them about the Yorkie-two days later, he was reunited with his owner. May God bless her soul. 

This is not the first internal column I wrote about strange encounters with animals-three months ago, I witnessed a goose colliding with a car on an interstate highway and survived to tell the story . I am like Snow White, but more depressed. Definitely the version of Brothers Grimm.

Naturally, the second run-in with the animal kingdom reminded me of the importance of these events. Does all this make any sense? 

Let's see if we can find an analogy here. In other words: let's make this about me.

Maybe I am a Yorkie: lost and scared in a strange world; running away from people trying to save me; small; cute; incredible sports.

Maybe I’m the owner of Yorkie: I have lost an important aspect of myself, but don’t know where to find it; look around for the missing things; find solace among my Facebook friends.

Or maybe I am... myself: confused but still struggling; chasing a goal, but not sure what I will do when I catch it; tired; sweat.

Mark yourself-I am a Yorkie.

Evan is a senior from the University of Notre Dame in Morristown, Tennessee, majoring in psychology and English, focusing on creative writing. He is currently the editor-in-chief of The Observer, and believes that em dash has an unchangeable power. Contact him via [email protected] or @evanjmckenna on Twitter.

On Saturday morning, as the runners stretched, chatted and sympathized, the Stephen Center buzzed with excitement...

Expose the truth and report accurately.

Like you see? Help support student publications.

Tel: (574) 631-7471 / Fax: (574) 631-6927 / Address: The Observer / PO Box 779 / Notre Dame, IN 46556 Email: [Email protected]