Plastered with a rough beard and a scruffy look; the man probably in his late fifties gently held the lease on Ritta’s neck. With delight Ritta opened her mouth wide open happily receiving the sky’s cozy warmth. She had a brown and white fur, and her eyes carelessly moved from one unknown object to the other. Those large bright eyes of hers said it all. She was in good place and the love she had for her owner flowed effortlessly. Mr. fifties, as I often called him was not the picture-perfect owner, nor was he clean or well-kept. He had a faint odor which smelt like a hot afternoon carried deep away from the south. Unlike her owner, Ritta did not have any distinctive odor, in fact she smelt surprisingly better than Mr. fifties. Her toe-nails were well-groomed and her fur was silk-like smooth.
“I don’t know where my sister got Ritta from, but I love this dog, man,” Mr. fifties said. After which, he and Ritta began their walk back to whence they had come from.
Early in the morning with the sun still nowhere to be found, Ritta and her owner strolled down the quiet empty road while the cars refused the light of day and the birds talked about nectar and berries.