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Stray Dog

There was this street I always walked on in my way to work. On that street there was a narrow alleyway to the right. In that alleyway a dog. A Stray Dog, who always seemed to be there. I didn’t know his or her breed, but it was like any other dog you have seen on the street. Tired, hungry, sad, alone. Some days he looked at every person walking in front of him, some days he just sleep through the work hours, and some days the Stray Dog was not there. One day I decided to take him, I had the physical, mental, and economic stability to do so. The day arrived, I turn to the alley and saw the dog laying there, cold. I poked and poked gently his wolly stomach, no response. Then decided to pick him up, slightly. As I held him onto my arms, his body dismantled like cold sand at night to the floor. As I peeked down, worms decorating the Dead Dog’s open stomach.
With disgust, I grieved the Stray Dog’s life.

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