Yesterday I was listening to novels on the way off duty, when I saw a puppy on the road, when the little guy was holding his puffy tail on the road, looking up every time he saw a passerby, looking at the hope as if he was afraid of missing something from someone else to give it to him. The little guy was holding on to his head, sad and sad, but he thought too much, that nobody would feed it, and I looked at it, and I couldn't bear to see what it looked like, so I went through with it.
So I looked at it, and at this point it looked like it wasn't like a stray dog from its face, because I thought ordinary stray dogs were hiding, and it wasn't easy, and it didn't look like it was afraid, but it was lonely, and the reading in the heart was no doubt wondering where my master was, and the little one was breathing as if people were groaning.
So I walked into it, and the dog looked at me, and I looked at it, and I wanted to get it home, because every lost dog was one of the most respectable little ones, and eventually it had a master who didn't expect it to be a real stray dog. This was indeed a great harm to it, and it took it home. In fact, sometimes it doesn't have to be said that dogs go home without them, because there are too many external elements.
Sometimes you forget your way home when you're anxious, so it's better to bring a dog rope when you're out, just in case you talk, and it's not really bad for the bad guys. Moreover, it is so small, and it is indeed an indistinguishable little man, who has no idea what people think, and who is therefore worried about it, from the moment it is brought home, to the day when it is brought up to old age.