Pipoca squeezes through the little wire pet door. CRACK — the tiny gate creaks, and her small paws hit the wet grass. Way back there, the smell of the teacher's coffee doesn't reach anymore.
She hops over the fence. Her paws slip on the soaked grass, and her tiny body tumbles to the other side. The world is way too big out here.
The neighbors' garden is quiet. Only the wind stirs the dry leaves scattered on the ground.
Pipoca sniffs the bicycle tire. Sniffs the pile of leaves. Sniffs the wall of the other house. No place smells like home.
A huge truck rumbles past, shaking the ground beneath her tiny paws. She squeezes into the cold crack in the wall, her tail tucked tight against her body.
Then — a sound. Small. Familiar. Her little ears perk up all at once, and her nose twitches. It's the teacher's voice, calling her name.
"Pipoca! Pipoca, where are you?" Two yellow boots stop at the garden gate. The smell of bread, warm with butter, drifts in through the open window. Her tail wags. Once. Twice.
Pipoca darts out from under the bush. BANG — the gate slams. She skids across the grass and bumps into the teacher's shins. The broom drops. "AAAH!"
The teacher sits down on the cold tiled porch and hugs the tiny Shih Tzu. Pipoca licks her chin. Once. Twice. Three times.
On the sunny porch, Pipoca sleeps curled up on the little red checkered blanket. The small sprinkler clicks off. The street is quiet — just the tick-tock of the clock and her tiny breaths. The teacher scratches behind her little ears.
