How fiction reflects life

You know how grumpy and stressed I was feeling yesterday. Well, I went for a walk to try and unwind.

I was wandering through the woods when someone came along with a couple dogs running ahead of her. She kept calling them back, but one ran right up to me and started barking aggressively, circling around like a guard dog keeping a thief at bay. I froze. The owner came running up, apologizing, but boy did I let her have it! If the dog isn't trained to behave appropriately around strangers, it shouldn't be off a lead. The owner was only about 15, pretty, smartly dressed and polite, and I started to feel sorry I had yelled at her. I was like another dog barking back. On the other hand, every word I said was appropriate. She deserved a tongue-lashing. I was scared out of my wits, and hate to think of it happening to one of the elderly people who walk through our park.

I walked home livid. When I opened the door, some junk fell in front of me. The kid upstairs had set a booby trap as a practical joke, probably intended for one of his parents coming home, but that was the second time it happened to me.

I came in, sat down, and wrote Chapter 25: more than 600 words describing how Tendril utters a scream of rage.