Hamilton hated airplanes. Hamilton hated the little pills that were covered in peanut butter. Hamilton hated that no one bothered to acknowledge that she was a girl. But Hamilton hated her owner even more.
Stephanie was an actress. Well, there was Broadway, then there was Off-Broadway, then there was off-off-Broadway, then there were homeless people begging for food, and then there was Stephanie's theatrical group. She insisted she was a real actress but the truth is she was just plain horrible. If Hamilton heard her sing "Let It Go" one more time in her shrill, thin voice, she'd swear she would need to steal one of the neighborhood's cat's nine lives just to survive.
Apparently, Stephanie and her theatrical group traveled around the world as "world-class actors" to bring the joy of theater and music to today's generation. The smell of the recycled air of the airplanes made Hamilton sick. The only thing that made her sicker was Stephanie calling her, "Come here, Hammy, my boy!" Hamilton was sick of being stuffed in that hell of a Prada purse coughing up her owner's sickly perfume. Not that anybody ever bothered to notice why she had an everlasting revolting odor.
Today's plane took them to Paris. Sweet, famous, land of the Eiffel Tower Paris. The line to get Stephanie's cheap souvenir for Paris was long enough. But Hamilton couldn't see a thing. Stephanie only left a tiny open space in her purse to let her breathe. Hamilton could smell the croissants and wine and escargot, but all she got was a scrap of leftover chicken from the local McDonald's. It was clear Stephanie ordered a large with a supersized Pepsi.
When Stephanie bought Hamilton, she was just a tiny Pomeranian. She was convinced that an adorable Pomeranian would bring more audience members as if she had any, but everyone was just sorry that such a cute dog would have to live under such an awful owner.
Hamilton looked up. Stephanie was busy texting about her next "gig." With one strong sweep of her tail, Hamilton unzipped her purse and snuck out. She carefully placed one dainty paw out of the purse. Then she put another. Slowly, Hamilton untangled her leg from Stephanie's necklace and stepped out. She double checked if Stephanie looked up from her phone. A big part of her was relieved, but a part of her was disappointed. There was still a tiny fraction of Hamilton that hoped that her owner would look up and convince her to stay and promise her a good life. But Stephanie didn't.
Oh, the sights and smells! Hamilton has never seen anything like it! And then reality came washing in.
She expected tourists coming in and out, enjoying the beauty of Paris. Instead, what she saw were a majority of tourists that were rather obese and groups of salesmen trying to sell them cheap selfie sticks. Honestly, they gave off a rather foul smell.
Paris isn't what I thought it would be, Hamilton thought. Does that mean the Statue of Liberty or Greece wasn't what she thought it was?
Hamilton didn't dare look back. She was afraid that if she looked back she would be guilted into coming back into her Prada prison. She stared at the mostly black and white shops of Paris. She stared at the coffee shops that would enough caffeine to vibrate her fur off. She stared at the obviously overweight man stuffing himself with a hot dog. She took a step forward. And then another. And then another. She broke out into a sprint, into the busy crowds of sweet, famous, land of the Eiffel Tower Paris.