A few weeks ago, we had a long walk planned—to a nearby nature park called Divoká Šárka.
We woke up early, went out just for a quick potty break, and then promptly went back to sleep. Being the master of comfort that I am, naturally, I settled myself in bed next to my human. I strategically placed my puppy-sized body onto a giant pillow, resting my head on his neck. Sure, he might’ve struggled to breathe a bit, but honestly, that felt like a minor detail. I was extremely comfortable.
Several hours later, I groggily opened my eyes to see my human suddenly running around the apartment in confusion. This could only mean one thing—soon I would be ruthlessly evicted from this huge, warm bed. We grabbed our essentials and headed out for today’s adventure.
The moment we reached the edge of the park, I was free as a bird—meaning, no leash! The absolute best feeling! Naturally, I took command of the expedition and led from the front. I tried to keep a solid 10-20 meter lead, but repeatedly got called back with annoying determination. Apparently, even the greatest adventurers must occasionally return.
The first hilarious moment came just minutes into our walk when a car approached on the road, forcing us aside. At this very second, my human was texting a colleague, reassuring them that our hike would be “totally fine” and we wouldn’t fall anywhere. It’s still winter, so naturally, the ground was covered in ice and snow remnants. The car passed safely. I resumed running happily ahead, and then it happened: my human slipped on ice and fell spectacularly into the mud. Fantastic! He didn’t seem amused, but I jumped around him, enthusiastically encouraging, “Again, again!” Little did he know, this wonderful event would soon repeat itself. Multiple times.
We strolled through a valley. I saw a little stream and desperately wanted to jump in, but was denied permission. The path twisted through the valley, covered in ice and water, forcing us to move cautiously—well, my human did. I enthusiastically ignored caution. Within minutes, we reached the foot of a big hill, our target destination. Thankfully, this area lacked ice and snow. Just mud. Lots and lots of mud. Up we went!
Without ice, I ran as much as I wanted—but running alone got boring. So, several times I crouched, barked provocatively at my human, and then sprinted directly towards him, jumping at the last second. He didn’t seem thrilled, especially after the third or fourth time. Eventually, I entertained myself by running circles around the path, jumping over fallen trees, splashing in mud, and scrambling up the hillside. My fun lasted about three minutes until I fell, yelped dramatically, and whined about my injured paw. My human looked horrified (probably pondering how he’d carry me several kilometers back home), but after a quick inspection and some mild limping, I was good enough to continue. Onward!
We reached the summit without further drama and found some viewpoints overlooking our distant home. The rest of the walk was pretty uneventful—I ran around the woods, my human ran after me. But the real comedy began toward the end, when someone—I’m not naming names—had the brilliant idea to take a “shortcut” through a field via a tiny trail. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t my idea.
As I mentioned, there was snow, ice, and where these were absent—water and mud. Naturally, the field had even more mud. What happens when the “cute little path” suddenly ends halfway through the field? Exactly. We waded through endless mud. Soon enough, my paws became bear-sized, weighing about five kilos more. My human staggered through the mess as if he’d consumed ten beers. When we finally reached grassy ground, his feet were elephant-sized, and his white sneakers were sneakers only with an extreme stretch of imagination.
Another ingenious idea of his followed—shortening our path through dense bushes because, “the main road must be somewhere down there” We walked slowly, crouching through an area no human had probably visited in fifty years. And now I had to suffer with him.
The terrain changed gradually from flat to steep. Somewhere around bush number 1643, the ground collapsed beneath my human, and he gracefully slid down, landing hands-first into mud. His hands, pants, and backpack—all mud-covered. Brilliant! The same graceful maneuver repeated further downhill. He didn’t look particularly amused. I decided I’d cheer him up soon enough.
Minutes later, we finally reached the legendary “main road”, my human opened his backpack, searching for something. Was it lunch? A medal for me? He looked at me and said, “This isn’t for you, wait!” He squeezed some cream into his hands and began rubbing them together. Fascinated, I watched intently—and then jumped straight onto him.
The entire valley echoed with his loud cry: “Oh my God, are you insane?!”
We arrived home both completely covered in mud, looking like forest pigs. It was a lovely walk.
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