autobiography of a dog
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I’m an old dog now, content to curl up in my bed by the fire with the old woman in her chair nearby. I feel the warmth on my nose, my tail and my paws, and I remember when I wasn’t warm or well-fed or comfortable. Times when I lived in the woods or in empty doorways, or barns or sheds. Times when I ate from garbage cans or hunted in the woods.
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