ping pong is exhausting

A stray ping-pong ball was resting by the edge of the hallway runner. I gave it a brisk swat with one front paw. It shot forward, ricocheting off the white baseboard with a sharp, hollow tick and skittering down the floorboards. I scrambled after it, paws sliding slightly on the polished oak. I caught up just as it spun toward the corner by the front door, trapping it against the wall with my chest before it could roll away. My sides were huffing from the sprint. It was far more running than I usually care for.