She threw the ball. It bounced twice, landing some distance from the dog.
Again and again, she threw the ball.
No response.
Why wouldn’t he play?
Yesterday, they had run through the fields together, leaping and play-fighting. For once, there had been no sign of that angry, red faced farmer who was always shouting, telling them to get off his land, accusing Sol of worrying his sheep.
Sol was the gentlest of dogs. He would never chase sheep.
Her mother called her. Lunch time. She went indoors, obediently.
Sol lay still; the cold wire tightly bound around his throat.

© Jane Paterson Basil

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