The pound is a place that dogs and cats are sent to. They are always either stray or taken away from their owners.
Dogs, in particular, that are sent there may have children. In this case, the children of this animal will be raised inside of the pound, not permitted to leave. The entire time that they are in the pound, they are up for adoption. However, if they are not adopted by the time of their first birthday, they will have that last day to celebrate, until they are put down, because, at this time, the city will see them as more of a liability than an asset.
This particular dog is scarily close to his first birthday. He was born inside of the walls of this particular pound. He will, if not adopted within the next 48 hours, be put down at 8 a.m of the day after tomorrow.
This is his story from here:
"I hate my life. I have seen this happen to my closest friends. They get to their first birthday without being adopted, then they go through that door right over there, and they don't come back. I know very well what happens in there, and I swear it is going to happen to me. They get killed. I have no idea how, but they die."
The pup was trembling in fear after hearing this person rambling for the seemingly longest while. He seemed as though he was born in the pound himself, but that might just have been his breed.
"Oh, but you'll probably be fine, though. It's just me that's screwed."
He seemed calmer, But he was still scared further than I could tell.
I don't have a name. They don't name you in the pound. It makes you too personal to the person that names you, makes them feel bad knowing that you're gonna die.
I think that I deserve a name, you know. All these rich chihuahuas get them, why shouldn't I? I want a name, a good one, too. Maybe James, or John. Or something less generic. I don't know. I just want one, alright?
Anyways, this pound is where I was born, and where I'm gonna die. It seems silly like I'm talking about Texas. Not that I would know what Texas is because they never let me go outside. I have to crap in a litter box like some stupid cat. Not that I would know any alternative because they never let me outside.
There is a small cage window on the wall in my cell, though. I can always imagine.
They taunt you with that mirror, too. I think that they know exactly what they're doing. They have the nicest looking patch of grass, right outside my window. I just want to get more exercise. I want to smell some air that doesn't have the stench of dog piss on it.
The outside seemed amazing. Everything was fresh, there were dogs that looked healthy. People would take them outside to poop.
I seriously hate my litter box. I think I would be better off just going in the corner.
The food is crap. It's always dry, like they don't want us to have a good last meal.
Dogs, in particular, that are sent there may have children. In this case, the children of this animal will be raised inside of the pound, not permitted to leave. The entire time that they are in the pound, they are up for adoption. However, if they are not adopted by the time of their first birthday, they will have that last day to celebrate, until they are put down, because, at this time, the city will see them as more of a liability than an asset.
This particular dog is scarily close to his first birthday. He was born inside of the walls of this particular pound. He will, if not adopted within the next 48 hours, be put down at 8 a.m of the day after tomorrow.
This is his story from here:
"I hate my life. I have seen this happen to my closest friends. They get to their first birthday without being adopted, then they go through that door right over there, and they don't come back. I know very well what happens in there, and I swear it is going to happen to me. They get killed. I have no idea how, but they die."
The pup was trembling in fear after hearing this person rambling for the seemingly longest while. He seemed as though he was born in the pound himself, but that might just have been his breed.
"Oh, but you'll probably be fine, though. It's just me that's screwed."
He seemed calmer, But he was still scared further than I could tell.
I don't have a name. They don't name you in the pound. It makes you too personal to the person that names you, makes them feel bad knowing that you're gonna die.
I think that I deserve a name, you know. All these rich chihuahuas get them, why shouldn't I? I want a name, a good one, too. Maybe James, or John. Or something less generic. I don't know. I just want one, alright?
Anyways, this pound is where I was born, and where I'm gonna die. It seems silly like I'm talking about Texas. Not that I would know what Texas is because they never let me go outside. I have to crap in a litter box like some stupid cat. Not that I would know any alternative because they never let me outside.
There is a small cage window on the wall in my cell, though. I can always imagine.
They taunt you with that mirror, too. I think that they know exactly what they're doing. They have the nicest looking patch of grass, right outside my window. I just want to get more exercise. I want to smell some air that doesn't have the stench of dog piss on it.
The outside seemed amazing. Everything was fresh, there were dogs that looked healthy. People would take them outside to poop.
I seriously hate my litter box. I think I would be better off just going in the corner.
The food is crap. It's always dry, like they don't want us to have a good last meal.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Do whatever the hell you want. Who even cares