When I was off work yesterday, I was walking on the road, and I didn't know where to scream, so I wanted to scream, and I followed the sound of it, and I found a little milk dog abandoned in a box, and I heard a dog barking in the box, and it was called a pain, and it was so small that you threw it away, and it was a hundred heartaches and a bowl of puppy snacks in the dog's box.
It doesn't look hungry, it probably means you can't see a good person, it's too worried, it's insecure, it's sad to think about a puppy that is so small, it doesn't have a master's word, it's sad to talk, it's pathetic to say a stray dog, but if you try to get rid of it once again, it's hard to get rid of it.
I thought I'd take it home if I didn't. What would this dog do in the middle of the winter if he was cold? I walked into it and held it up, and it was only then that I knew how small it was, how small it was, how small it was, how good it was, how soft it was, how it was, how it felt that the bastard was a pain in his heart, how it was, how poor he was.
When it's brought into the house, the little one gets in the ground, he gets scared, he gets in the corner, he gets heartache, he starts to twist himself up, as if it were some kind of irritation. But then I try to comfort him, but when I think about it, let it fit in, and when I realize there's no crisis, the little one's just starting to go out on the subject. I wish it would be better and happier.