Angel was a sad dog.
Maybe it was because she was born with round, sad puppy eyes. Or maybe because it was just her.
She lived with a family of five, in a huge garden. She had came here since she was six months old. Sometimes though, she felt like she had explored every single bit and corner of this land, and she would wander along the boundaries. Sometimes, if she was lucky enough, she would find a hole large enough for her to squeeze her long sausage body through. She would then run across the neighbour’s lawn, around their houses, occasionally barking at the servant peeling potatoes outside. Freedom was always short-lived. For it was never long till her family found out.
Grabbing their keys from its place, they would race to the gate, all the while yelling ‘ANGEL!!!!’ ‘Her leash! Her leash!’ Another would yank the leash out of the pot where it was kept in a tangled mess. In twos or threes, they would chase her down. She ran! My, did she run! It was all a game, and she always loved a game. But she usually knew when to give in. Tail down low, she stopped abruptly. They came, and she was chained before she was dragged back to the house and given a spanking.
Angel loved to sleep in the sun. The warm would seep through her fine and thin layer of fur, and she would close her eyes.
One day, she had a dream. She had walked through a land shrouded partially by shimmery fog and she found herself in a similar, yet in a weird way, different place. It was outside the same garden, but there was that veil, and no one had come to chase her.
Her naps were always short. So the dream didn’t last that long too. She sniffed about, filling both her nose and mind with the delightful new scents. The smell of the last dog that had visited that patch, the smell of the wild flowers’ pollen, the damp smell of the humid air. She took everything in, making sure that she remembered it all.
By the grassy road side, there was a shallow drain. Sometimes, she would walk in it for fun. But today, she didn’t. There was sludge in it, and she hated getting wet. In some ways, she pride herself on being clean. (But if there were interesting stuff, like the new smell of a stranger walking past, she would race out, regardless of whether it was raining or dry.) This time, she balanced herself on the cemented edge of the drain. She was pretty good at this, despite having four legs to fit into a straight line.
The fog was thinning to a mist. In the tiny part of her mind that was disciplined, she knew it was time to go. And she walked out. Her poise was perfect, but her eyes still carried that emotional look.