It wasn't the eerie howl emitting from who I can only assume were deranged teenagers chasing me that had me running. It was the pull of a leash from a black bolt of pure labradoodle lighting.
The pack behind me howled louder as I yanked my arm back into the socket. "Come on, Rootbeer, stop!" My assertive command sounded weak and nowhere near the calm, assertive statement Ceaser Milan told me to make. Rootbeer turned momentarily and gave me her goofiest grin. I let the leash out a little further and ran to catch up, easily outdistancing the pack behind us.
After a while, I yanked the leash back. My bicep contracted and relaxed. Rootbeer's forelegs bulged and the tendons in her neck stood straight out. My muscles outdistanced her flex today. I won the race
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What the nose knows
Root Beer's first bath
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