The reader might become more attached to Buck, and if it was told from the trainer's point of view, it might change the reader's opinon on Buck, and make it more on the trainer's side.
Answer:
There’s no photo or reading? How can I answer without this
Explanation:
Last year my family and I went on a camping trip to the Mississippi river. It was intended to be a peaceful getaway but quickly turned into quite an adventure. On our way to the campground a small dog ran out from behind a tree and ran right across the road. Thankfully my dad quickly swerved leaving it unharmed. That dog did a dangerous maneuver and he didn’t even bark! At our campsite was a basket full of squirrel treats. They really pushed feeding them. They wanted the squirrels to get as much food and grow so the dragons can eat them. The dragons are giant! And they live in big dark caves. We wanted to visit one so we did. We saved a lot of time by riding our bikes instead of walking. When we got there we were trembling. What human being goes to a dragons cave? We were terrified. The ground around us started shaking. I opened my eyes to my mom shaking me to wake up. We were about to miss the plane!
To the causal eye, Green Valley, Nevada, a corporate master-planned community just south of Las Vegas, would appear to be a pleasant place to live. On a Sunday last April—a week before the riots in Los Angeles and related disturbances in Las Vegas—the golf carts were lined up three abreast at the up-scale ―Legacy‖ course; people in golf outfits on the clubhouse veranda were eating three-cheese omelets and strawberry waffles and looking out over the palm trees and fairways, talking business and reading Sunday newspapers. In nearby Parkside Village, one of Green Valley’s thirty-five developments, a few homeowners washed cars or boats or pulled up weeds in the sun. Cars wound slowly over clean broad streets, ferrying children to swimming pools and backyard barbeques and Cineplex matinees. At the Silver Springs tennis courts, a well-tanned teenage boy in tennis togs pummeled his sweating father. Two twelve-year-old daredevils on expensive mountain bikes, decked out in Chicago Bulls caps and matching tank tops, watched and ate chocolate candies.
David Guterson, ―No Place Like Home: On the Manicured Streets of a Master-Planned Community,‖ excerpt from Seeing and Writing 3
