a pheasant runs on the road with its mouth open.

“Porcupines can’t run,” he says, jogging backward in front of me.“Watch me,” I say, tightening my muscles and pushing off to a sprint. More like a jog. Or maybe a trot.The hyena rolls on the ground, dissolving in amusement as I set my sights on the watering hole and give it some gas.This continues every night, again and again. As I climb from my hole, stretching and preparing to try again, there he is, lurking in the shadows.“What’s your name?” he asks.“Perfluffity,” I say between gasps.He snorts with joy, “Perfluffity? Perfluffity?” Again, he falls to the earth, rolling as I continue putting one foot in front of the other. “I’m going to call you Fluff,” he says, as he rejoins me.“Well, what’s your name?” I ask.“Frank,” he says and that makes me laugh.“If you’re so fast, how come you’re not running in the big race?” I say as I slow to an amble.“Not my vibe,” he chuckles, matching my pace. “You know, if you try not to wiggle so much, you’d go faster,” he says, oscillating his body like a snake to emphasize his