Metaphor.

There was a dog outside of my house today.
It wasn’t mine.
His dark eyes crept up me; his nose shuddered with the scent of my initial fear.
Just before I slightly reached down to touch his matted fur.
It balled up in my hands,
I could feel the dirt and stickers that had accumulated in his mane just beneath the surface.
I knelt next to him, examining my acquaintance.
His paws alone could rip me apart,
But there they sat.
Still as the night air that hung about us.
He stood tall, but with a slight hunch.
A hunch of hunger, a hunch of despair, perhaps even a hunch of regret.
His white fur, once glamorous and vibrant,
Had faded.
Time and dirt had taken their course.
I parted the fur and looked for any identification.
A collar jingled.
He belonged with someone.
Or rather… he had once upon a time.
The collar was dirty, old, and dilapidated, not unlike the dog’s appearance.
A broken chain clip slipped into my fingers.
I grasped it with curiosity.
This dog was neither old nor worn.
In fact, he was very much alive.
And he had escaped…

I am that dog.