There is no other possible explanation for how crazy she gets some days.
Up a hill. Dig a hole up there until if you didn't have any fur on your face you would be blue in it. Down the hill. Dig another hole, only this time, four feet deep with the dirt hitting passing bikers in the face. Back up a hill. Back down as fast as possible. Time your arrival on the path to barrel in front of a biker going as fast as you are, causing him to kill himself. Check his backpack in case it contains tortillas. Throw up some of the dirt you've been ingesting from all that digging. Check the vomit for any pieces of leftover duck jerky. Tear a tree in half. Go swimming. Trot over to Dad to shake off next to him. Dig another hole. Chase a passing dog away in case he gets any ideas about your mouse. Run up another hill. Pretend there's a herd of deer up there and run around in wild circles until you're dizzy. Ignore the whistling and distant voice calling you. Insist on going up a trail that would kill a Sherpa rescue team. Go home, eat dinner. Throw it up. Eat that. Throw it up again. Eat it again. Come inside the house. Ask to go outside again. Ask to come inside. Ask to go outside again. Be left outside. Mope at the door until let in. Immediately ask to go out again. Find a mud spot. Throw yourself down in that and wiggle around. Ask to come inside. Elude the towel Dad tries to dry you with and instead position yourself under the piano to shake off so that Dad will have to get underneath and clean the water and mud off the 70-year-old spruce soundboard. Run upstairs. Run downstairs. Run back upstairs. Jump up and down like a bucking bronco until let out again. Turn around and ask to come inside again. Drop down on the carpet and pass out. Only for a minute - you forgot to ask for a cookie by running to the kitchen as fast as you can and slipping on the floor and knocking over a chair. Be given the cookie. Pass out again.