February has been a month of doggedness.

Earlier in the month, I was called a “pitbull.” No offense to anyone, but I don’t like pitbulls. They’re just not my dog of choice. So I took this word with me into my run later that same day to…sure, chew it over.

In my mind, pitbulls are all teeth and jaw and untrustworthy, according to my mother— or unfairly maligned, according to other people.

Either way, it’s not like being called a Collie, or a greyhound, or Golden Retriever. You are not called a pitbull because you’re snuggly or pet-able.

That day, I ran 4.8 miles and thought about being a pitbull. I wore my new dog hat. I looked for dogs on my run. I only saw this good girl:

See her? That speck is a Husky, and she’s watching me, but never ever moving. She just sits there as I run past her, turn around, and run past her again.

I wouldn’t dream of approaching this good watchdog on her turf. Like her, I respect caution and scanning the landscape for threats. Plus, the dogs I’ve owned as an adult were partly or fully German Shepherd; my last dog broke a window trying to get to the UPS guy. (We had to call the central office and work out a schedule that accounted both for our dog’s whereabouts and UPS delivery times.)

Was I a pitbull? Did I instill fear in decent people just trying to do their jobs?

*

Then the weather got colder and I ran three miles anyway. I wore my dog hat again. I had been arguing a lot with people the week I took this picture. It had not been a good week.

That week, I felt like I was made of spikes. I argued in meetings. I got yelled at during phone calls. I withdrew from a social networking site because it had made me cry at work.

Maybe I was a pitbull. But maybe more of a beta pitbull. The kind of pitbull that isn’t very good at being a pitbull.

When you look up “pitbull” on Wikipedia, especially if you’ve been called a pitbull, these words stand out:

Fighting

Blood sports

Bull-baiting

Bear-baiting

Attack dog

Liability insurance

Air carrier restrictions

These words do not pop up in the Wikipedia entry on “Golden Retriever.” Everyone will insure you if you own a Golden Retriever, it seems. You can take a Golden Retriever on any kind of plane and, I’m just guessing here, it probably gets its own free seat right beside you.

*

I talked to my mom a lot in February about being the sort of person that’s perceived as a pitbull. A spiky person. A person who gets in arguments, or provokes them, or both.

My mom is loyal and fierce. She began law school at age 38. She was one of the first women hired in her law firm in the 1980s. She’s retired employment lawyer who negotiated contracts with teamsters.

Once, a nurse’s union sent my mom a bag of coal for Christmas.

My mom used to have a private investigator on retainer.

I mean, my mom is tough.

But she’s also really sweet. She’s amazing with my kids. She remembers details about everyone’s lives, learns everything about mail carriers and Uber drivers and dentists, and plans world-class theater trips to New York City.

She sinks her teeth into things, and she’s tenacious. In her law firm’s meetings, she was always the person expected to take issue, to disagree, and to say so.

My mom’s last two dogs were Golden Retrievers. I think this is important to mention, but I’m not quite sure why.

*

Lately, my younger daughter hears me describing my day to my husband, and she tentatively asks, from the doorway, “Are you arguing, Mama?”

“Just being emphatic,” I tell her. “Not arguing.”

Or am I?

*

I ran three times in February so far. Three! What a month. Still, I’ll try to run at least once more before March.

I wore my dog hat again on today’s run. This picture was taken after I’d written an angry e-mail to someone and was afraid to check my inbox.

I ran 3.4 miles and didn’t see any dogs at all.

This week, I had my first coffee with a friend since we stopped being friends in October, after a very ugly argument that happened over social media.

It was very nice to see this friend again. We hugged it out.

This week, someone else apologized for yelling at me, and I forgave that person.

These people are tenacious, too. My God, so damn tenacious. Which is probably why we clash— and definitely why we persist in trying to work things out.

This month, my longest-standing friends have invited me to reunions. This month, I and my newest friends —professionals and moms, like me— stayed up ’til 4 am talking and yes, drinking in front of a number of our kids, and yes, my older daughter did indeed say to me, at my workplace, “Mom, on the playground today, A— said you guys were really drunk.” Each Friday, another friend and I walk and talk out all of these spikes and barbs and teeth and jaws. Nearly every day, I ask my mom for insight.

There are so many strong-minded women in my life— including these impertinent daughters I seem to be raising.

So many strong-minded men, as well, for the record, like my father and my husband.

Anyway, on today’s run, I rethought my relationship to this word, pitbull.

I think the word I’d prefer is “dogged.” It’s how I think of my past dogs— those loyal, busy, sometimes extreme, good-hearted German Shepherd-types.

So I looked up the word “dogged,” just to be sure. There are some synonyms that give me pause, but these seem…on the nose:

“Marked by stubborn determination… resolute…persistent.”

(Also known as “a pain in the ass”? Sure, that fits.)

But also: Steadfast. Feisty. A watcher of yards. Patient. Hard-working.

Prefers visible boundaries and clear communication.

Playful, sometimes. Teethy, sometimes.

And always, always, always: Cherishes a pack of like-minded beasts.