Sadistic Mongrel

This is the hate part in the love/hate relationship I have with Zappa. I thought we were going down the valley, we kind of were. It was another new route that started in the middle and led to the creek, across it and uphill again. My lungs were burning, a sensation to be re-experienced several times more today. There was a short-cut, but Zappa ignored it and followed the road up the hill and round the bend. At which point he stopped to check some messages, finally I can catch my breath. The break didn't last long, Zappa led me down via the short-cut he ignored before. Back across the creek and up the hill following the road. We ducked in and out of streets, mostly trotting with occasional stops to sniff or pee at something. Of which I am grateful for as I hungrily suck in more air. Sometimes the lung burn is accompanied by stitches on my kidney. Zappa is happily trotting along while I try to keep up, my pride preventing me from admitting that I am not as fit as this damn dog! Meanwhile I start to recognise and remember houses. I imagine what it must be like to live there and how and when did it come to be. What do the occupants want us to think of them.