I am a good dog.
I love my walks with the family.
But Joggers really make my day.
They wear bright clothes and jiggle towards me, arms flapping, legs akimbo.
And if I’m a really lucky dog, some of those legs will be bare.
Perhaps their calves will be sweaty, and I can lick the salt right off them.
Otherwise, I can tumble into their path like a bundle of blown leaves. I can make them stumble and trip. I can make them shout out in surprise. I can conjure excitement from out of the muddiest field or the wettest beach.
Some joggers are wary of me, and those are the ones that I like most. I approach the wary with care because I am a good dog.
So, I watch. Often, I crouch.
I bide my time. I observe. I wait.
Then, when they get close, I rush in and jump for joy.
My gentle teeth might find a knuckle, or my tongue a cheek, if I jump high enough.