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Alone, that is my favorite. I dance and prance. I am full of life. I chase the flies and make it into a game. I run the house when no one is home. That is my favorite. I can be who I want to be. No rules, no enemies, nor predators; nothing to be afraid of. That is my favorite. I can stretch out my paws and lay in the sun. I nap when I want to. There is no one to pick me up and play with me like a lifeless stuffed animal. I make my own rules. That is my favorite.
But now, I hear the car motor, the jingling of the house keys, the door is opening. I scurry towards a small crevice where I could squeeze in to hide. The footsteps of my owner clobbering around in their large rubber soled shoes running to find me vibrate the floor on which I lay hidden. I feel a hand grabbing my tail. I am found. They pick me up like I am a doll. No voice, no rights, just a useless doll. Alone, I wish I was again. When they’re around I am just a pet. A victim to their stress and frustration, I am. Why me, I ask myself. Why did you have to pick me? The sun begins to set and I know what that means. The maelstrom of emotions is coming to a conclusion.
While my owners lay their heads on their plush white pillows, I lay mine on the cold tile floor awaiting the rise of the sun to be along again, because that of all things in my favorite.





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