Let’s play ball…

A couple of days last week, I tore myself away from the desk — it was a hardship — and went off leash with Mr. G honey and G-Pup. Mama Sunshine was calling my name.

I think there is something wrong with our pup. When we tumble out of the car at the off leash park, Gracie Allen takes off like a shot. All we can see is a streak of blond heading out there…somewhere. Going where no G-Pup has gone before. When we crest the hill, there are all the other dogs, sniffing each other, hanging with their Timmy-drinking-owners, taking the air. Every once in a while, one will lazily cock a leg or squat in the tall grass. That is all.

G-Pup is gone. I’m talking warp-speed gone.

She lives for the ball. You know. One of those red tennis balls in a long-handled device that will let you fling the ball into another galaxy. Yep. She lives for that.

Try to focus on the red ball in this picture, and then we won’t have to talk about it ever again.

When I say fling into another galaxy, I’m excluding myself from that reality. You see, I have a serious right hook. Maybe it’s a left hook. I send the ball sailing straight out, but seconds later it is veering to the left, or maybe the right — as in seriously veering — and heading for the tall grass. I’m waiting for your call begging me to play on your baseball team.

Just in case you ever have to take G-Pup off leash, she doesn’t veer or do tall grass. That’s not the kind of retriever she is. I like to wear my pedometer when I go off leash with her. I can get my 10,000 miles steps in that way.

If only I had a video camera, I could show you her breaking system. It’s YouTube worthy. You’ve seen some wind turbine action right?

Those other dogs — the sniffing each other, hanging with their Timmy-drinking-owners, taking the air dogs — just don’t know what they’re missing.