I see you standing there in the middle of the parking lot come dinner time. You are eager for your dinner and you wait impatiently. All of you gather together and run to where the food is when the nice lady from across the street puts it in 2 plates for you. I see you and I talk to you across the gate bars. You are too nice to live like this, I say. Being a stray can’t possibly be fun. You didn’t choose this. You just are. There is nothing wrong with you that a home couldn’t cure. People walking by say nice things about you because several of you are cute and cuddly. They don’t take you home. For whatever reason, their concern for you is a distant. They may or may not understand that you deserve to be under a roof, cared for and protected.


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