In my creative writing class we do an activity that the teacher calls “writing bursts”. This is one I did last week.
Three years old, small, yet proud. Standing in the middle of a tornado. Not of dust and rocks, but of dogs. There out of all of them was Dancer. Not following anyone, just being a dog. How could she hand been in the shelter for four years. Then I found my answer. Her foster mother would not let her go.