The Life Of My Puppy, Gingerale

1252 words - 5 pages

It was one of the sweetest memories of my life. To begin with, a perfect day was dusking in my new compound. Biking alone, I sighed of boredom and pedaled without energy. Suddenly, a puppy came scuttling out of the bushes. His ginger ale colored fur was like a coat, gleaming under the warm sunlight, the fur on his chest were white. Moving closer, I could see that he was focusing on me with his big eyes that were the color of caramel. He had white eyebrows, and looked as if he was wearing thick eyeliner. The two floppy ears were shaped like triangles that were upside down. He was absolutely adorable. I hopped off my bike and wandered a little bit closer. I could sense from his eyes, he was dying for a friend. However, I cognized he didn’t have a collar. Thus I maintained a distance, even though I wanted to pet him. To my astonishment, the puppy scurried over to me, and started nipping my shin with his teeth. It really hurt, even though he was just playing around. Irritated, I lifted him from the ground as if he was only a shoe box light, and set him down in his garage. When I turned away, he dashed over and continued nipping me again. “Stop doing that!” I clamored; he backed off, blinking his innocent eyes at me. They seemed apologetic. For a moment, we just stared at each other. Maybe he wants someone to care about him. I paced over, and leisurely squatted next to him. To my surprise, he stuffed his head underneath my arms. While my hand gently ruffled his fluffy fur, I heard him whimpering, with his gloomy eyes peeking up at me. He was expressing about his agony to me. That was the day our friendship was planted into the soil, waiting for sunlight, and water, anything that would help it grow mighty and flawless.
Every day he lingered outside my house, waiting for me to get home from school. It has been a week, and I already discovered some brief back round information about him. For instance, he has no name, and he’s from the countryside. Furthermore, his owners don’t care about him, they even asked me if I wanted him. Of course I did, but no matter how much I beg my dad, he still said no. At least he was able to roam free in the compound. If I clapped my hands, he’d appear out of the bushes to greet me. Whenever I practiced my flute, he’d sprint over to my garden, and listen to me play, wagging his tail to the beat of my music. It was about one month later when a name popped into my head. “Gingerale!” I whispered enthusiastically, he just tilted his head to the side, and blinked. Day by day, our friendship thrived, I loved exploring with him in the compound. Once, when we were jaunting on the grass field, a white butterfly fluttered over Gingerale’s head. At first he just gazed at it, but rapidly began to swipe at the butterfly, chasing after it. It was one hilarious scene that I’d never forget. One time, I walked him on a leash. We reached the playground and I decided to rest. So I tied the leash to a wooden post, and settled onto a swing....

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