Just north of my house lies a large, empty field. Parked on the edge of the field, I was seated in the passenger seat of my sister's F-150, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. That's when two SUVs came driving through, racing each other at reckless speed. One of them came too close to me, knicking a headlight. After the SUVs were past, I leapt out of the truck, yelling after the one who'd hit me. When I went to check the Ford for damage, I found it hadn't so much as a scrape, luckily.
Then a small pack of wild dogs came running past, following the SUVs. Fearful they'd get run over by those careless assholes, I followed them, trying to persuade them to leave the area. That's when I found amongst them Cheech, my dog who'd gone missing this April. Around his torso had been secured a plaid bandage. Apparently he hadn't been killed by coyotes, just injured then taken in by some unknown person and nursed back to health.
Getting my family to assist me, I got hold of Cheech and carried him back inside the house, taking care not to jostle him too much because he was still healing from his ordeal. At this point, I began suspecting what was happening wasn't real, just a dream. Then I awoke. Cheech is still gone, almost certainly dead, and I miss him.