Twas the week after Christmas

Twas the week after Christmas and all through the house, no piece of clothes would fit me, not even a blouse. The blue jeans were hung in the closet with care in hopes that i’d wear them and go out somewhere. My tushy was nestled all snug in my sweats while visions of running did cause me to fret.   I in my stretchies and the dog on her string had just gazed out the window longing for spring. When out on the street there arose such a clatter I sprang to my feet to see what was the matter. Away to the door I flew like the Flash, then stood their winded, my breathe in gasps. The inversion was grey on top of the snow, casting gloom to the Idaho we all know. When what to my sugar glazed eyes should appear but my reflection in ice as if in a mirror. With a tubby lil tummy, so jiggly and sick, I knew in a moment I looked like Saint Nick. More rapid than eagles my course I did change, I whistled and shouted and called the dog by name! Now Phoster! You good dog! Grab a leash or a chain. Now puppy, lets go run, come snow or come rain! To the top of the hill, on the top of the snow! Now run with me! Run with me! Run with me, go!

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