I had a purple leash, when I was a child. I had a purple leash. My purple leash clipped to a bridle, a pale pink bridle. I pawed the ground as I was strapped into my harness, my pink bridle with its purple leash.
There were buckles in my bridle, my pretty pale pink bridle. Shiny buckles. Tiny straps went through the shiny buckles. Tiny straps that curled at the ends. They waved on my chest.
The leash jerked me to a stop. I could pummel my legs, but could not move - except in an arc, an arc around my paranoid mother. I think it lucky my bridle had no bit.
Come here, little girl; this way, not that. You can run, but you cannot hide beneath that car. Be careful of that strange man. Don’t pick that up; you don’t know where it has been. Stay close by.