Milo bounded through the tall meadow grass, his bright orange tail streaming behind him like a flame. Sunlight poured over golden petals and swaying stems. Every step sent little puffs of pollen into the warm air.
He ran until his paws skidded at the center of the flower patch where everything went wild at once — lupine and daisies and thistles tumbling over each other in a riot of color.
He laughed so hard he tumbled onto his back, paws kicking at the sky. But a root caught his paw and he scraped his knee. The laugh twisted into something hot and sharp. His teeth clicked together. This was not how today was supposed to go.
Milo stomped through the clover. His claws dug deep furrows into the soft earth. His tail was stiff. His ears were flat. He glared at the root that had tripped him.
He stopped panting in the trench his paws had made. Why did the meadow look perfect one moment and wrong the next? His paws were planted wide. His tail twitched.
A cloud drifted over the sun. The meadow went gray. Milo blinked. Even the flowers looked quiet now.
The gray light settled over Milo. His claws sank slowly back into the earth. The storm inside him lost its urgency. He let go.
This anger did not belong here. Not in a meadow this quiet. Not with the clouds already drifting away.
He listened to the meadow breathe. The grass whispered. The wind hummed. Milo was still Milo, and the meadow would keep being wild and messy and beautiful.
Milo's ears perked. His tail gave a single happy flick. Somewhere down the path, a bird called. He paused. He thought about what came next.
He stood on his hind legs and peered down the path. The meadow stretched out in every direction — green and gold and wild. It was okay if everything didn't go perfectly.
Milo hopped down and bounded toward the path. His tail streamed behind him like a flame again. The meadow was his, wild and wonderful and exactly as it should be.