Finally deciding that petting Lucy is getting absolutely nowhere to get rid of all her pent up energy, I move towards the garage door and she runs full speed at it. I barely have time to open the door before she manages to not run into it. As soon as the demon runs out the door, she has a cat in her mouth. It is still alive, and disturbingly seems to be enjoying it. She cowers and I sigh, separating the two and looking around the garage to see what could help me. My eyes descend on Lucy’s bright pink soccer ball (a past replacement of the purple one) and I go to pick it up, only to feel that it’s flat and probably wouldn’t even roll on its own. I then remember that she put multiple holes in it over the last summer, from dragging it around with her teeth, and sigh. I look around and find one of my first soccer balls from the rec days at Oakwood, a blue ball from when I hated the color pink. I pick up the blue ball and feel that is almost completely pumped up and I toss it to the prancing puppy. She eagerly chases after it and hits the ball, not very delicately, with her paws, attempting to trap it and bite down on it and failing because of her short legs which I can’t help but feel sympathetic towards.

The continuous cycle of Lucy chasing the ball, trapping it, and sometimes bringing it to me, continues for about 15 minutes until I assume Lucy is tired. Of course, I should never underestimate the powers of Lucy. She isn’t tired and wants food, which I comply to, assuming that she didn’t get fed this morning.

I text my mother later, asking the very question of whether she did get fed, only to find out that she was in fact fed.

Now, as I write this, Lucy lays on the floor, completely cashed out, and hasn’t moved in half an hour. This may be somewhat concerning to some, but from the soft snores coming from her sprawled out body, she’ll be okay with sleep.