A game of catch with a willful pup is not straightforward.
Fetch isn't an adequate description of the complex transaction. It starts with a nudge or playful nip–then it's my turn to retrieve–from the pile of "dog-eared" stuffed toys and bright balls in what was formerly his bed, now relegated to holding status. The toss can't be immediate, a squeak or two from behind the back first, in order to build up interest.
There's always a point in the game, when the scales tip. Bounding away, tail waving in joy, object clenched to one side of the jaw–he's got me. One impatient step toward the pup means he's now in the lead. Suddenly I'm chasing him. He circles me, darting away, barely breaking a pant. We're no match in agility so he tones it down for this poor gal.
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Up the ante if the object's a forbidden sandal or the electric bill. Once, Ralph stole a college daughter's rent check then gaily bounced around the yard while we tumbled in pursuit. But we're well trained. Several minutes of pleading and proffered treats finally brings him in. The check cleared, despite the teeth marks.
By the way, has anyone seen my slipper?
