Tuesday, March 15, 2016
I took the dog out this morning. We were going to meet a friend and walk with her and her two babies. So in preparation, I wanted to tire the dog out sufficiently that he wouldn't pull and trip people and make life miserable. He really wants to RUN. He wants to fly down the trail, something I have a hard time doing with junk knees.
So we took the ball and I tried to outsmart him to get it away from him to throw it. Mostly he teases me by coming nearby, dropping it from his laughing mouth, and pouncing on it the second I start in his general direction. I have to be really quick to stomp on it, or swipe it away while he's looking at something else.
The whole "Look, there's a rabbit!" ploy doesn't work one bit.
I'd throw the ball out there and Riley would streak after it like greased lightning, his tongue flopping out with a doggy laugh, the drool floating out behind him in a long string.
Then would come that magical moment:
As the dog slammed into the catch, he'd raise a cloud of dew drops against the sunrise. The two, dog and ball, awash in a spume of rainbow-spangled mist. I could feel his pure, unadulterated joy as his teeth clamped down on his bouncy target.
And later, when he lost that ball, you'd think he'd be a little upset, but he wasn't. He just loved being out there, free, running with the wind flapping through his ears, peeing on every likely-looking weed, tree, or cactus.
We went back later to look for that or any other rogue balls, but found none. Still, we had a blast bushwhacking through the weeds, just a girl and her dog.