The trees swayed angrily in the wind, swaying hard enough so that their roots down below could have started complaining. For some reason, the wind kept on getting stronger-cars were skating around as if driving on ice. Somewhere, a radio was frantically broadcasting the weather report that kept on changing by the second. I was running in a dog track team, but I wasn’t paying attention to my running. I was paying attention to the trees arguing about which tree should go where, which very unfortunately led me on a different path than the rest of my team. The second I looked at the arguing trees, I crashed into a tree myself. Because of its size, the tree didn’t seem the least bit annoyed. I had only made a small dent in it, but I started clawing at it. If I had to survive in the wild myself, I might as well get my unreasonably sharp nails filed. I kept on clawing. I think a few mice ran away, along with a few squirrels, but I wasn’t distracted. As a small but well-trained golden retriever, I knew that staying on track with what I was doing at first was better than getting distracted. It would have been nice if I had an owner, because then maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Me and the other dogs on my track team were let loose when we were babies, because the unfortunate, shell-shocked pup store that we were born in had a big unforgiving budget cut. I hoped that what was to come next would be good. Because my nails were now all filed, I now started hearing my surroundings again, like the frantic, fighting trees. And I ran, I ran as if my running was a robber swiping money from a bank then running away silently. I ran like the world was chasing me, because I had a goal: To get back home.