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An adult English coonhound runs like a deer. An adult fantasy author (or at least this one) runs like a wombat who desperately wishes she was wearing a sports bra. I can sling mulch for hours, I can dig holes for days, but running is a different specialization.

(Seriously, the dog is about the only thing that could cause me to run these days. I am DONE with running. If a serial killer comes after me, I’ll demand to see his weapon. Anything less than an axe, I’ll just take the hit.)