Storm

Toofan* didn’t bark, nor did he howl. His sound was more like a whimper, a weak, stifled scream, as if afraid to rise. I was certain his vocal cords had been cut—just like his ear. His powerful body was hidden within a small cage near the garden, where only his piercing eyes could be seen through the tiny vent.
Whenever I approached him, he lowered his head and breathed rapidly.
The landlord’s son barely paid him any attention during the day, but whenever I stroked Toofan’s head, he would puff up his chest and boast,"He’s a fighting dog. He’s already won twice. I’m training him for the next fight."
I glanced at Toofan. His gentle, hazel eyes just stared back at me in silence.
For days, workers had been digging a new sewage pit right next to Toofan’s cage.
They tied him to a tree outside the house. The heat was unbearable. He was lying flat on the ground, with his tongue hanging from his mouth. He was so still that I wondered if he had fallen ill. I walked over—he barely had the strength to lift his head.
As the pit grew deeper, they tore down his stone cage. That night, he slept on the street, just outside the house.
The silence of the night was shattered by the barking of stray dogs. Three large dogs prowled around the house. A powerful snarl and fierce barking startled me from sleep.No, it couldn’t be Toofan—not with his severed vocal cords.I drifted back to sleep.
By morning, chaos had erupted in the landlord’s house.I peeked outside the window. The broken chain lied beside the tree.Toofan was gone.Just like a storm.

*In Persian language Toofan means storm.