Stray Dog

There once was a girl who wanted to be a stray dog. Stray dog would be better than being owned. Better than sleeping outside. Better than being starved. Better than being on a chain. Better than being beaten. Living as a stray dog on the streets would be better than this.

One night there was a storm. He was out in the yard beating her, chain in one hand, the other free. Flashes of lightening, raging across the sky, blinding him. She pulled with her hands at the chain, heels digging into the dirt. Good girls didn’t fight, good dogs didn’t bite. The beating continued until another flash of lightening. He paused to look into the distance. It would rain soon. Now was her chance. Snarling, she dove forward into his chest, knocking him over. he dropped the chain. Scrambling to her feet she ran, hoping he wouldn’t catch hold of her. He didn’t. She heard him screaming and cussing as she jumped the fence and ran down the street.

Just as she always dreamed. The gravel beneath her feet, the chain dragging behind her, the wind whipping her hair. The reality of the situation, that it even was reality, refused to set in. She ran desperately—tears or fear and stress streaming down her face. Then gradually, slowly, the knot in her chest was replaced with something else. She ran and ran and ran until her lungs burned and legs strained with the effort, and still she ran on and on. Behind her the storm grew, growling at the sky holding it back. Soon it would break free and trample the earth beneath it, just as she was.  

Yes, stray dog was better.