Racing her always starts the same way — a playful bow, a quick tap on my leg, and that spark in her eyes that says, “You’re not beating me.” She waits for the signal like an athlete at the starting line.
When we run, she shoots ahead with effortless speed, leaving me in the dust every single time. She glances back at me mid-run, as if checking how badly she’s winning… and then somehow runs even faster. It’s unfair, honestly.
By the time we stop, she’s barely tired while I’m trying to catch my breath. She circles around proudly, tail wagging, knowing she’s the reigning champ — and she’ll never let me forget it.
