"So did I." Bolt said, speaking in his own tongue.
"Bolt?" Sharpenny looked up at hearing the bark.
In the dark corner of the bus stop in which she sat, Sharpenny spotted the dog poking his fluffy white head and looking at her.
Bolt took his small hesitant steps toward the familiar/unfamiliar girl and sat by the bench.
"I…Like-oh," Sharpenny began, falling into her stereotype out of habit-habit-habit (That's no typo, it's gotta be done about 67 times to become three times a habit).
Taking a deep breath, Sharpenny said: "Get over here, boy!"
Bolt pounced onto the girl's lap, receiving a very awkward hug.
It feels weird, really, to be hugging someone you've known, and feeling like you're in the arms of a stranger.
For the first time in years, seven years, Sharpenny stroked her own dog's fur and loved it, not doing it for the publicity like she used to do, you know for dog food that didn't even appeal to flies.
And Bolt was beginning to relax, with the epiphany that this girl, holding her sincerely, was the one who neglected him for fame, the one who took him away from his real owner…
"I don't care if I like have to be laughed anymore, you know?" she explained to Bolt. "I could, like, make people happier, like I used to, and maybe, get out of this stupid stereotype."
Bolt seemed to smile more through Sharpenny's eyes, and she got up, holding her dog, with a new determination in her eyes.
She dropped her picked up her bag and let Bolt heel, hailing a taxi back to the studio.