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Rudy, tag champ

This is Rudy, and he loves to play tag.

He’s got that fantastic, Lemmy-esque head of hair that catches the wind while he shreds the grass and mulch and porch beneath his feet, and you can almost hear him wailing Ace of Spades while sister Mattie’s the perfect accompaniment, jammin on drums as she goes all metal on her ball.
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I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t complained about our rock shows or at least a bunch of ladies in cutoffs and cowboy hats haven’t shown up in the front yard looking to meet the band.

For all his energy, Rudy likes to point out he’s an old man (17 in August!). He likes to toddle up to the steps, asking to be let in. Oh, I’m tired, he says. I think I’ll go inside. Pick me up, I’m old.
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Here I come, ready to scoop him up and tuck him in, but as soon as I lean down, Zing! He’s off, scampering out into the grass with a smile.
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Circling back to the steps, Seriously, he says. I need to put my feet up. I get close, and Hah!
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I’m ready for a nap… Hee!
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I’m gonna go read the paper… Whoosh!
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He loves to stay just out of reach, smiling and laughing. (I’ve started making the Heee! Rudy noise and running from a dead stop at random times, much to my wife’s dread/delight).
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He did take pity on me, saying I’m too slow, and taught me some moves, setting up a little line dance on the porch. Rudy took me through the whisk, the juke, the whiff, and the hop, remembering to smile and/or whee!
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And Mattie’s in the corner with her ball, like:

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