Look at her adorable face. Awww isn't she cuuuuute. Look at the baby fat. Her bespecatacled eyes.
She is Satan incarnate. The Devil disguised in fluff.
She made me run two days ago. No, let me be specific. She made me sprint two days ago. And if there's anything worse than running, it's running fast.
I was walking her around the neighbourhood and when we walked past a house with a German Shepherd inside. It growled, Honey got spooked, and she sat down in the middle of the road. Then in a flash, she decided to make a bolt for her life: the leash slipped from my fingers and I watched, stunned, as this puppy who still fell over her own paws while walking, just flew down the stretch of road. She almost looked like a rabbit from behind.
"I'm going to have to catch her before she gets run over. DAMMIT."
So I ran. As fast as my running-hating legs would carry me. For about 350 meters--which felt like eternity to a person who's never sprinted more than the compulsory 100 meters in my school's annual Sukantara. No amount of yelling the stupid dog's name would make her heel. Behind me, I heard my father laughing his ass off. I believe he was hooting "I've never seen you move so fast!" The indignity of it all. I looked like a prize idiot: doing something unnatural to me (running), screeching "Honey!! HONEY!!" and trying to ignore the stitch forming in my side, and the man who sired me was guffawing. I hope he wet his pants.
Then a guy on a bicycle saw me, then the dog, and he blocked her path--bless him bless him bless him--and she finally slowed down enough for me to grab her leash from the ground.
My father the smart-ass commented that the dog and I matched because we both panted all the way home. I'm still not talking to Honey.
