Francine.

(I did this one about a dog found by some cool people, intending it to be fairly short, but I think I’m just going to run with it, so suck it.)

Francine was a good creature, bereft of malice and victim to few instances of malcontent. The day her family abandoned her was a day of unexplained confusion, dreariness invading her docile eyes. She was brought to a patch of woods unknown, left on her own. Delirious with self-doubt, she quickly began hallucinating. She hummed along with the a’capella jackalope orchestra and fled in fear from the were-daisies. She carried on in this fashion until she became reaware after knocking her noggin upon the second step of a wooden porch that belongs to a woods-bound hermit who spends his days collecting small patches of bark and his nights categorizing them by shape. Francine hobbled up the steps on three paws and began to whimper and scratch at the door until the man answered with a low guttural yelp and an already prepared bowl of dog food and water, ushering her to a pile of clean blankets meticulously strewn in an empty corner of the one-room cabin (albeit a very large one room). With crumbs and streams of water and drool collapsing out of her visage, Francine wobbled over to what must be her bed, losing consciousness before she lands. Tomorrow would be better than today, but there’s no telling what the day after will bring.