The skinny dog was cowering in the furthest corner of the dingy shed.
Henny was down on her haunches, her hand outstretched.
‘There, there. It’s okay, boy.’
The dog tried to bolt, but his back legs failed and he whimpered.
‘Well?’ Tom asked from the doorway.
‘He’s in a bad way. Soaked in urine and shit. Can’t walk. I’d like the owner to suffer the same.’
‘He has been. You should see the house.’
‘All I care about is this poor boy.’
‘Shame nobody cared for the old fellow either. Could have saved both of them from this stinking hellhole.’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.