Remy and I are running up “the big hill.”
I consider myself fit, this mountain says otherwise.
My quads struggle to lift me, my mouth’s wide open, I’m stomping around. My face, a tomato. Half way up. Almost there …
He pitter-patters. A ghost just ahead. Not panting. Mouth closed. It’s like he has no need for oxygen. The weight of a feather.
I think he’s tip-toeing!
At the top, he’s zig-zagging, tracking, peeing on things.
I’m standing there, amazed my heart can beat so hard.
And I’m certain my dog didn’t notice the climb.
Didn’t even notice.
Published at Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:30:10 +0000