adventures of a typical high school student

Cinnamon is her name, my grandmother said. 
Like the color of her fur. The dog's fur was dark

brown, almost black, but I said nothing. Arguing
with her never accomplished anything. 

I could tell she wasn't the brightest- her ears 
didn't even perk up at the mention of her name.

She wagged her tail expectantly. When I was eating 
a turkey sandwich come lunchtime, she jumped

onto the table (no easy feat-- she hopped up on the chair 
next to me and clawed her way up within seconds)

and tried to take a bite. I was immediately annoyed.
As more food robberies and shenanigans were 

attempted, I learned to ignore her. I had always been 
a dog person, but I wasn't a Cinnamon person. 

My grandmother moved in. She brought Cinnamon with
her, of course. No matter that my dad, her own son, had '

always been allergic to dogs, and that we'd never had a dog 
in our home in my life. Rules she had never had to follow

were laid down. No sitting on the couch, no going upstairs, 
no stealing food from the table, no going in the dining room.

She spent most of her time outside, napping on a lounge chair
in the sunshine. Specifically, the place that was "my spot"

in our backyard. I laid on the chair anyways. Cinnamon 
hopped up to sit there with me, and I ignored her...other 

than a few rubs behind the ears. I wasn't a Cinnamon person,
but she didn't like it here either.

I hope you enjoyed this piece! It pretty much sums up a lot of the frustrating experiences I’ve had since my grandmother and her dog (yes, Cinnamon!) moved in with my family in January. I don’t want to come off as rude or an animal hater, but as you can tell my feelings towards Cinnamon were mainly displaced. I actually spend a decent amount of time taking her on walks now. Please let me know if you have any feedback on this piece, or any writing challenges you’d like me to try out in the near future. Stay safe and healthy.

Brooke