The Puppy’s Big Wobble

Florence lived in a house with a green door. One day, a new puppy arrived. His name was Barnaby. Barnaby had fur the colour of toast and paws that were far too big for his body. He was tiny, but he wanted to run.

Barnaby wanted to chase the red ball. The ball sat quietly on the garden grass. Florence threw it gently. Barnaby wagged his tail so hard his whole body shook. He let out a happy woof. But when he tried to run, his legs did not listen.

He went to the left. He went to the right. He spun in a circle like a top. Wibble-wobble, wibble-wobble. Barnaby landed on his bottom with a soft plop. He looked at Florence with sad eyes. He tried to stand up. His front legs slipped on the smooth patio stones. He slid back down again.

Florence felt a little worried. The ball was just there, waiting. It was a lovely game, but Barnaby could not play it. She tried to lift him. She tried to tickle his tummy. Barnaby just sighed a long puppy sigh. He did not want help. He wanted to be a runner.

Barnaby sat and watched a butterfly. It fluttered near the flowers. It moved very slowly. It did not run. It did not slip. It just hovered in the air. Barnaby’s ears perked up. He watched the butterfly land on a yellow flower. It stayed there, still as a statue.

Barnaby looked at the red ball. He looked at his big paws. He remembered the butterfly. He did not try to run. He sat very still. He held his breath. He moved one paw forward, slowly, slowly. Then the other. He was not running. He was creeping like a mouse.

Crunch, crunch, whisper. His paws touched the grass. He got closer. He got closer. He did not slip. He did not spin. He reached the ball with his nose. It was cold and round. He picked it up gently. He looked at Florence with bright, proud eyes. He did not run to her. He trotted over with his head high. He dropped the ball at her feet. It was a good game after all.