Pfc. Mitch McConnell wiped his arm over his face and felt the grit scrape his skin. He was losing it. The stress, the hell that surrounded him day by day, it was all catching up to him and he was cracking.
The big black dog let out a whimper and looked up at Mitch with eyes that bore into him.
“Bruce? How…how can it be?” he whispered. Bruce was thousands of miles away, back home, where he wished he could be. Yet, here he was. Just in time to pull Mitch from a sniper ambush.
Mitch bent down and grasped the dog firmly. He was real. Mitch couldn’t take it. As the tears flowed, he kissed Bruce’s warm head. “You saved me, Bruce.”
Bruce swiped his warm tongue over Mitch’s face.
That night, back in the tents, Mitch couldn’t find Bruce. Mail came, a letter from his wife dated two weeks ago. Bruce died. Hit by a car. She longed for him to come home. Mitch couldn’t stop the tears.
Flash Fiction Friday! Who can resist writing a story with a picture like this? I couldn’t. Now, whether or not it’s any good…can’t blame the prompt. Leave a comment, maybe tell a story about your favorite four legged friend. I’d love to hear it.
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