Yesterday, when I came down the stairs and threw waste, a streetman in the neighborhood left with something on his hands, and I thought, "Why don't you throw in the garbage cans, or move my fingers?" When I walked, when I walked around, I heard the sound around the trash cans, screaming, listening to the weak noise.
And then I got close to knowing that it had been in a bag that was soon lost, that I had no idea what was in it, and that I was curious about what was inside, and that I had the courage to look inside, that it had been a little milk dog, and that it seemed like it was just born, and that it was really painful to lose it.
That's why it's so small, it's supposed to be cold, it's so cold this day, it's so big, it can't get cold, so let's just think about taking it home, and when I hold it in my arms, one of my neighbors comes back and dumps it, and I see my little milk dog and says, "This dog is so small, it's hard to grow it home, and it's not easy to keep it."
When I was worried about how small the dog was, it was a dead end, and I took it back, I took it back as a live horse doctor, and I could still save my life, and I brought it home, bought it some goat milk. The puppy actually said it was too cold, warmed it up, and then gave it milk, and the little guy slept so well, and saw its pink and tender skin was really going to be captured, even though it had not opened his eyes, but I saw it filled with curiosity. How can he leave it alone in a paper box to look for what he looked like?