The Pooch Puts Me in the Dog House

I have been ignoring the Pooch of late, I admit it. There have not been enough hours in the day to find time to indulge her in the sort of lengthy walks and runs to which she has become accustomed. So, in a fit of guilt, I grab my trainers and the dog-lead and together we charge out into the bracing February air.
After a mile or two I find that the pent-up frustration I felt whilst cooped up in the house, attempting to work while the Pooch sighs noisily and reprovingly from her basket, is dissipating. This is the life, I think as I jog along. Out in the countryside, watching the river wind its way through the valley, listening to the bird song, smiling at passersby, watching my pooch wag her tail and--
"NO!" A vision of the infamous Benton/Fenton YouTube debacle flashes before my eyes as the Pooch goes careering ahead of me to herd some poor fellow runners off the path and knock their feet from under them.
"Come!" I command.
But the Pooch is on a mission. A mission to disobey. She does not come. She continues to run, picking up speed and heading straight for the other runners' knees. I can see it now, she will bowl them over, they will topple like nine pins.
There's only one thing for it, I think, I shall have to run faster.
I put on a bit of a spurt and grab hold of the Pooch just in time. I receive a couple of thin-lipped smiles and insincere, "She's a lovely dog," from the objects of the Pooch's misplaced affection.
I am now left with a dilemma.
I have to keep the Pooch away from these people, so either I wait for ages until they have run on ahead and are safely out of sight, or I run ahead of them, which means keeping up quite a pace. A pace I have been unaccustomed to of late.
I decide that I'm on a roll having caught up with the Pooch, so I may as well go for it. I run on, the Pooch bounding at my heels, the wind in my air, the sun glinting off the water.
This was the right choice, I think, as I feel my heart rate rise and I lengthen my stride.
Then I look down to see how the Pooch is doing.
She is not there.
I glance back.
She has gone back to the other runners and is happily bowling along at their pace, dancing in front of them, jumping up at them, jabbing her nose at their knees and generally have a ball. Their body language makes it clear they do not share in her joy.
I breathe in sharply, bellow the Pooch's name for all I am worth and keep running. There is no way I am going to run back to get her. That would just be humiliating.
When she eventually catches up with me, I put her on the lead (which I know, I know, I should have done earlier) and then she delivers her coup de grace. She decides I'm not running fast enough this time, and jerks me forward. I catch my ankle, trip and fall.

By the time we get home, I am ready to commit acts for which animal charities the world over would have me hauled over the coals. My language is at its most colourful and I thoroughly enjoy hosing the mud off the Pooch with icy water as I tell her EXACTLY what I think of her. As I finish and go to turn off the hose, a man in a dark blue uniform walks into the garden. He is looking particularly stern and has a clipboard in his hand.
Oh no, I think. This is it. Someone's reported me to the RSPCA. I'm going to have to hand over the Pooch, the cats and the chickens and Small Boy will never ever speak to me ever again.
"Hello," says the man.
"H-h-hello," I stammer. Will I be black-listed? Will it get into the local paper? How will this affect my career? After all, I write about animals for a living.
"Will you sign for this?" says the man, handing me small parcel and waving a pen in my face.
"Oh, yeah. A parcel. Sure," I say, lowering my face which is bright red (and not from running).
The Pooch nudges me in the knee as the man disappears down the path and looks up at me with knowing eyes.
"You don't have to look at me like that!" I mutter. "I know I got away with it this time . . ."