Clocked

Today was a lovely day, sun-shiny bluebird winter kind of a day. After a wicked yoga session (I sweat a grim face into my tank top, a damp: -_- under the sports bra. Not sure what could be more attractive) we loaded up the three dogs and headed out to R's work's base camp.

It's a lovely plot of acreage out in the country. You drive past llama farms, a few ranches with horses standing around looking bored, and all the while the Cascades on the horizon show off for you, until you hit gravel. There, R opened up the back door to the car and let the three beasts scurry out. Then we hit the gas while they ran behind us, old Kaya at a slow trot until she was a quarter mile behind us, Rio jack-rabbiting up the middle and Margaux at a full-on sprint beside the driver's window. I did not know a head that big could move that fast, but we got that dog up to 30 MPH. I kid you not.

After some ball throwing on the lawn, we headed down to the river and chucked the ball into the water for awhile, until their poor little hieneys were clenched and their back legs shivered so hard they refused to jump into the water anymore. On the way back out on the gravel (with Mama safely tuckered in the back seat), Margaux only got up to 26. When we finally let her in the car, I told her how disappointed we were with her. Only 26 miles per hour? Weak. In this family, we're winners.

So, that's her base. Next, we figure out mine.