One Sentence Story

Claire Borges

Mr. Waddington

English 8

4/28/14          

At promptly seven o'clock in the morning, the sliding door screeches open, and a small dog with curly white hair with hints of apricot, bounding like a bunny, sprints onto the dewy grass, running, slightly, trying to keep its paws dry, knocking around the swings underneath the play set, sprinting into the colorful garden and peeking through a crack in the fence, only to turn back around and run to the fence at the back of the yard by the beige garage and the trampoline, and listen for squirrels;  meanwhile, the sliding door opens, and a little girl, no older than seven years old, with dark brown hair in a ponytail, fair skin, and blue eyes, runs into the yard, chasing after the tiny puppy, yelling, "Daisy baby, Daisy baby," and galloping through the yard with her little white blouse, plaid skirt, and little navy Mary Janes, trying to catch up with the bouncing puppy running in the wet grass, being her little innocent self with no worries in the world, living in that moment, and soaking up the energy of the sun and the yard and the little girl, loving every moment of action, speeding through the never-ending yard, abound with squirrels numbering as no one had ever seen them before at one, all running across the damp ground, away from the lively little puppy with no care in the world, nearing upon the building the size of Petsmart filled with every type of raw hide, pig ear, and squeaky rubber toys the world has ever seen, in a place with no baths, haircuts, shots, obnoxious children poking you in your eyes, or veterinarians fiddling with sharp objects or suction devices, and there is no one there to steal your food, and your life is perfectly happy, until the shabby, old dog wakes up to see a little dog trying to steal its bone and ruin its life.