My dog, Eevee:
Everyday when I come home I can always count on one thing to cheer me up… my dog. The first thing I hear when I open the door is always claws scraping against the wooden floor of my home. The small black pup will come bounding around the corner, a blur as she takes two stairs down at a time. Her tail wags ferociously, propelled by her excitement for my return and her rusty dog tag bounces freely around her neck. Her heart-warming greeting always bring a smile to my face and any negativity from the morning seems to fade away. I bend down and slide my hand across her sleek black fur, admiring her huge mouse-like ears. They’re tucked down as the hyper pup continues to speed around, dodging furniture and anything else that enters her path. I pick up her favourite toy, a stuffed turtle, which is covered in mud and grass stains and leaks stuffing every time it moves. Soon the smell of dog breath is too much for me and I chuck it across the room, watching her tumble across the floor in an effort to retrieve it. She drops it at my feet and I watch as she pants, her focused brown eyes never leaving the dirty ball of fabric, challenging me to throw it once more. Her playful puppy ways never fail to entertain me and I pin my hair up, ready for the next round of our game.
Soccer:
The referee blows the whistle, and for a moment I’m too stunned to move, the high pitch sound ringing in my ear. I shake it off and bolt down the field to catch up. I can feel the stress lifting off my shoulders as I begin to run and I pick up the pace, trying to escape my problems. The wind rushes past me, blocking out the noise of other’s opinions, and in this moment, nothing matters. I don’t need to worry about the homework, girl cliques or drama. Rain starts pouring down, the fresh smell filling my lungs. The field around me is blurred and my legs are covered with goosebumps. I have never been so miserable, yet at the same time, so relaxed. I block out the cold, refusing to let it slow me down. I don’t care if we win. These 90 minutes are the best part of my week and I refuse to let them slip away. Everything going on outside the field doesn’t matter and that is why this game is so important to me.
Reading:
Sitting at the edge of my bed, I scan through the pages. I sneeze from the dust I’ve been breathing in, yet it does not slow me down. Flipping them over one by one, I take in every word on the page. The faint cries and shrieks coming from my younger brothers are seeping through the slight crack in my door, so I kick it shut. There is absolutely no tolerance for distractions. As the ending nears, I can feel the anticipation filling my chest. I had predicted the murderer from the very first page and as every piece of paper is turned, I grow more and more confident in my choice. Finally, the last words of the book slip off my tongue, but this is a taste I am not so familiar with. It is the taste of being wrong. My eyes grow wide and I throw my hands in the air in shock. I bounce around the room, unable to process the information I had just received. Finally, I collapse onto my bead, exhausted from my excited response. This is nothing unusual, and every time I open a new book, the urge for an unsuspected ending grows stronger.
