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Friendship in a Kennel|Story Version

 
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7/10/2008 13:04:41   
mastin2
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This story will be implemented in a later chapter of my story--[link=]United Hope[/link]--once the edits on the first two chapters are done and I finish a chapter or two. It was originally from Friendship in a Kennel, Located Here.

He had known nothing but abuse in my life…it was what he was born to take. His mother died shortly after giving him life and his twin brothers and sisters were killed, so he has no family. He was well-raised, yet after that day, forced to live off of the little piece of land that he now called home. Happiness to abuse is a rather nasty adjustment, so his life was meaningless to him. The tree, the ‘house’—meant more as a joke than a place for him to live—the cracks forming a ditch, the grass, all within a very small radius. Originally, his captors had given him a space outside, but now, he is locked in a metal box, mocking outside. He was locked up in this ‘kennel’, and hated it. His masters were called ‘humans’, and he hated them. His first master was a kind ‘man’, but he now faced those less pleasant. He was skinny, in bad condition, hating ‘man’. ‘Woman’, however, was much worse, even beating him with metal sticks and injecting strange things into him. He was mutilated beyond his original form, now more of a monster than ever. That’s right, ‘woman’ beat him up with their ‘tools’, as if him starving slowly to death wasn’t enough. But one day, my masters left. ‘She’—the one leading them—had left on some type of errand, unknown for what purpose, never to return. He now had nothing left and his prison still bound him. He would die there—howling his heart out in his shifting forms—with not a soul to listen to his screams. The person that ‘woman’ called ‘dog’ would die in here alone, without a companion. His hatred for woman had grown to a boiling point. He growled when any, by chance, approached the now-empty location and if they even got within a head’s reach of his kennel, then he would attempt to bite them. And he would bark as well. He would do whatever it took to keep his oppressors away; his chain keeping him away from them as much as the walls causing pain in the form of shock throughout his body upon contact.

That had been the fate he had accepted. Until—that is—one day another woman came. But she did not shrivel away in fear; instead she glowed with the aura of happiness. Another was with her—perhaps an old friend—who she was speaking to in their tongue. He didn’t and still does not understand what they said, but the words are clear English. Her friend commented “You know, you’re giving their continence too much credit; they are domesticated beasts, not capable of higher thought.” However, this woman seemed to strike back at her comrade’s comment with “You’re wrong! They feel what we do, pain, fear, shock, hunger, thirst, anger, and many higher thoughts.” The tone—though he couldn’t understand the words—seemed like none he had heard before…it seemed to be one defending him as who he was. How could it have been that this woman was so different? The poor dog may never know. But the fact is she feared him not. He growled at her; she still approached. He barked; she was unfazed. She bent over onto his knees just out of biting range, and then extended her arm in what appeared to be friendship. But from woman, he thought this impossible, so he bit her and did not let go. Yet she merely winced at the pain and stared at him with those hazel eyes. It was like she had gone though a similar experience and sympathized with him. Her smile and her closed eyes were not those of one wishing to strike him. He didn’t know such emotions existed, yet he was feeling them and seeing her feel them as well. She extended her other arm and actually brushed his fur briefly, before snapping the chain that had held him for so long. He released his grip and bit her other arm, this time releasing after only a few seconds. She did not feel the pain; the red blood dripping from her hands onto the floor doesn’t even faze her. The poor dog heard the woman’s friend shout “You idiot! That thing could be rabid!” But this woman’s emotions surprised him again as she replied “I don’t care! I’m going to help this poor friend now; you can’t change my mind. He has experienced too much pain for him to accept, but I must try.”

How could it be that this woman was like this? She pressed a little box on the side of a pole, and then showed how the fence would no longer shock him. But she wasn’t done yet. She left the door to the kennel open, hoping for the animal to escape. No, it was not for the abilities this poor soul possesses, but actually companionship. But it must have been a trick—he thought—so he stayed exactly where he had been. She left him the best food he could ever imagine; he ignored it and went hungry in the hopes of scavenging his own. She left him the purest, richest water available; he drank murky water from a puddle. Yet every day, she would come back, refill the supplies he never used, come up to him—despite the fact that he always bit her—and brush his fur in a show of respect. Respect for what he was. His growling, his barking, his biting still did not scare her, and what else could he do to resist? One day, however, she came, yet her hands were in bandages and she was extremely weak. His constant biting had finally taken effect; she very well could have been dying. Then he finally understood why she had done it…compassion. Not all women were bad; he had just seen the worst. Here was the kindest woman imaginable, so when she came that day, he followed. He followed her home as a companion; an equal. No more was he to be a threat. No more would he be nothing but scum. He would be an equal and he could tell this woman—who appeared to be the human equivalent of his age when this all started over a hundred years earlier—would cherish him until she would perish. He shall never forget the face of this woman. He shall never forget the face of kindness that awoke his heart.
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