The competition began the moment the door creaked open. No warning, no countdown, just pure instinct. I swear I felt like an Olympic sprinter waiting for the gunshot—except this time, the “track” was the hallway, and the finish line was the comfort of my bedroom.
But before I could even take two steps, Chooch was already charging ahead like a furry lightning bolt. His tail shot straight up, his paws thudded on the floor, and his little body swerved like he was dodging invisible defenders. I cried out, “False start! Where’s my referees at?” but apparently no one was volunteering to officiate this showdown.
I leaned forward, sprinting as best I could, but honestly—Chooch had me beat. He cut the corner sharp, launched himself onto the rug, and skidded into the bedroom like he was sliding into home plate. By the time I arrived, out of breath and laughing, he was already perched on the bed, looking smug, licking his paw as if he’d been there for hours.
I collapsed beside him, panting. “Ngl, Chooch, you were a lot easier to beat in this race last week,” I teased. He flicked his ear, unimpressed. Maybe he’d been training in secret? Practicing those sprints when no one was watching? Either way, I had to admit defeat.
The funniest part was how serious he looked afterward, as though this tiny household race meant everything. His chest puffed out like a champion, eyes sparkling with pride. I reached over to ruffle his fur, laughing at how ridiculous and adorable it all was.
At the end of the day, I didn’t mind losing. In fact, I think I’ll keep challenging him to these little races. Win or lose, the joy is in the chase—and the sweet victory naps we share afterward.
