The sleeping puppy

As I ran past the market each day, affectionately receiving tawny crabs, roosters for slaughter, carrots and garlic in large red plastic tubs, a litter of puppies attracted me.

Huddled in large flat baskets of wicker, the puppies rested their chins on the backs of their siblings, sticking together like bright yellow sticky bean bags with black spots, the black spots being the bean filling squeezed into the outside of the skin. I don't know of any other living creature that sleeps better than these puppies, their black and flowery noses and wrinkle-free faces written with warmth and sweetness.

The puppies sleep in the market, not knowing that they are here to be sold. They do not understand the word "sell" at all. Sell, is a human invention, animals have never sold anything. Dogs have never sold cats, cats have never sold sparrows, sparrows have never sold hunchbacked beetles. Nor have animals and insects sold feelings, tears, or financial derivatives. The puppies are so sleepy, I wonder what makes them so sleepy. The roosters in the iron cage on the side crowed under the knife, as if the roosters who complained about the crowing should not be slaughtered. And the man who slaughtered the chicken back to cut the rooster's wings, crossed the knife to wipe the chicken's neck, bleeding, that circle of land color deep black. The chickens in the cage panicked and pecked rice, not knowing if they had seen the scene of their kind going to the torture.

Puppies sleeping, as if there is a heaven on the nose. Scientists say that mammals have to sleep, so thank God that they do. Go to sleep and weave your dreams in your sleep, regardless of dreaming of becoming the cockerel who wiped the man's neck with a knife.

After having kittens in the house, I understood the expressions of all the puppies almost at once. The original fear of dogs, such as a rat as big as a dog makes me afraid. Later, I learned that puppies look at people in the street in a daze, they think almost everyone is good, which is a signal from the eyes of the dog. The dog's eyes are innocent, trusting, and eager for you to roll with it, chase it or bite each other's noses. Dogs do not know that their masters throw them out on the street because they are sick; dogs do not know that their masters call them sons when they hug them; dogs do not know that there are dog hospitals, dog shampoos, and dog photo studios. Man invented the word "dog" and became a man himself.

People say in textbooks that people are superior animals, and in order to support this, they say that people have thoughts, feelings and love. The history books of man include the history of France, the history of silk, the history of medicine, and the history of everything, but no one has compiled a history of human cruelty and deception. It is complimentary to call oneself a human being, and there is nothing wrong with calling oneself an animal, but it is a bit presumptuous to call oneself a superior animal, without the consent of all the animals. If you call yourself a senior animal simply by slaughtering or eating animals, then wolves would have been senior long ago.

The puppies sleep in baskets as black as mud, like swimming across a river, a river of dreams, in each other's company. The dogs are like childish spots on the face of the exhibition, like proof that the basket has hypnotic magic. And their mothers, in an unknown place fallen forlornly thinking of them, a group of sons and daughters without names, nowhere to look, asking everyone who passes by with their eyes.