When I was a child, I raised a little wolf dog. It was very obedient; whether I got angry and slapped it or playfully tied its four legs with a plastic bag, it never barked at me, nor would it bite me.

At that time, the first thing I did after school was to find it immediately. The little wolf dog was especially happy to see me, always wagging its tail to welcome me home.

However, it always stuck to me, circling around me, which made me, in my teenage years, feel annoyed. When I was irritated, I would mercilessly slap it. Strangely, it always forgot the pain once it healed—when it was being punished, it would cover the painful spot and whimper, begging for mercy. Once the pain was gone, it would continue to cling to me, not holding any grudges at all. Looking back, I feel guilty and regretful; if time could turn back, I would never hit it, and I would take good care of it.

However, not everyone liked it. At that time, my father and his two brothers all lived in an added-on house, which felt particularly crowded, and the presence of the puppy often led to family conflicts.

My third aunt particularly disliked the dog, believing it didn’t bathe, pooped everywhere, and was too smelly. So every time she passed by my house, she would not forget to scold it, calling it a stinky dog that poops everywhere, disgusting. However, the little dog still rushed to the door, wagging its tail, hoping to get her forgiveness. As a result, my aunt would kick it away, and after being kicked, the dog would yelp a few times before slowly getting up and continuing to wag its tail.

Perhaps for the little dog, it understood its situation (having no status in this family), and if it wanted to stay here,

it had to get along well with each of us. Therefore, even when treated this way, it would forcibly erase those bad memories.

My aunt's behavior made me very angry, but I was just a little kid and couldn’t confront her directly. So every time such things happened, I would cry and make a fuss, and my cries quickly caught my grandfather's attention. Seeing me crying, my grandfather began to scold my aunt. My grandfather had authority in the house, and my aunt didn’t dare to retort in front of him; she would suppress her anger and later close the door to settle accounts with my uncle.

At that time, I was still young and didn’t realize the seriousness of the consequences of my crying and fussing. I naively thought I was venting for the dog, not knowing that my aunt would vent all her resentment on the dog, causing it to disappear.

One day after school, as I was nearing home, a few big roosters blocked my way. These roosters, seeing that I was just a little kid, refused to let me pass. I saw their domineering attitude and didn’t dare to confront them directly, so I went around them, walking along the wall. Unexpectedly, one of the roosters immediately adjusted its angle and lunged at me, pecking my neck, which made me cry out in pain. Despite my efforts to avoid them, these guys continued to attack.

At that moment, the little wolf dog at home heard my voice, immediately squeezed through the door crack, and sprinted towards me at full speed, pouncing on those roosters. The rooster couldn’t dodge in time, and after a few rounds, its feathers were scattered everywhere, and finally, the roosters made the sound of hens laying eggs and fled in embarrassment.

The little wolf dog looked at me, whimpering, as if to say, "Master, are you okay? Does it hurt?" I patted the little wolf dog's back, picked it up, and a warm feeling surged in my heart. I said, "Thank you, little dog, you are so cool."

From then on, I often bought delicious food for the little wolf dog to express my gratitude. I even thought about the little wolf dog while at school, looking forward to getting off early to go home and keep it company.

One day, I was feeling uneasy, constantly worrying that something bad would happen at home. I tried to control this negative emotion, but my heart was still anxious. As soon as school was over, I rushed home. When I stepped through the door, I didn’t hear the familiar barking as usual, nor did I see the dog come out to greet me.

At that moment, an ominous premonition surged in my heart. I hurriedly searched the entire house but found no trace of the dog. The little dog couldn’t have run away by itself; someone must have taken it! I thought to myself, tears streaming down my face. Then, I asked my parents where the little dog had gone. They said they hadn’t paid much attention and thought the dog had gone to play on the rooftop.

Upon hearing this, I immediately ran to the rooftop to search. This time, I didn’t find the dog, but I encountered my aunt, who had a nonchalant attitude. "What are you looking for? That dead dog?!"

I immediately replied impatiently, "What dead dog are you talking about?"

Unexpectedly, my aunt sneered, "Just a worthless mutt, I’ve already thrown it out."

I couldn’t take it anymore and rushed up to fight with my aunt. She didn’t hold back either, shouting, "Everyone come and see, come and judge, that dead dog bullied me, even bullied a child..."

At that moment, my grandfather came over upon hearing the commotion. After understanding the situation, he shouted at my aunt, "You’ve disturbed the whole house and made the child cry! That dog has been raised for many years; there are feelings involved! You have no right to throw it away! Where did you throw the little dog? Hurry up and get it back; if you don’t, you can’t stay here..."

My aunt didn’t expect my grandfather to react this way, and at that moment, she didn’t dare to continue making a scene. Instead, she said the dog had been put in a big plastic bag and thrown into the trash can by the river.

My God, she actually put the dog in a plastic bag?! I had to hurry to find it; otherwise, the little dog might suffocate! So, under my grandfather's lead, we went to the riverside, searching through every trash can within a few kilometers for the dog. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find any trace of the dog. It seemed to have disappeared forever and never returned.

For the next two weeks, I was immersed in sadness and sorrow: had the dog lost all hope in this family? Had it suffocated or been disposed of? Or had it become a stray dog, going to a place we couldn’t find?

I wrote down my longing for it and my wish for it to come home quickly on paper, then folded them into dozens of paper airplanes and sent them out of the top floor window.

I believe that one day, it will find its way home and reunite with me, continuing our bond.

Later, my uncle, to express his apology, caught a stray dog from the market. This stray dog was also very pitiful; to survive, it was often bullied by the vendors at the market, and sometimes it had to endure malicious torment just for a bite to eat. When it was brought back, it was covered in scars and had skin disease.

It was very socially anxious; after coming to my house, it never dared to bark or poop randomly, always hiding in the corner whether there was something going on or not, as if any noise would trigger its nerves. My aunt learned from the last lesson and didn’t treat it harshly. Perhaps being low-key and avoiding trouble was its way of survival, allowing it to escape disaster.

One day, I took this little dog out for a walk. The weather was nice that day, with a gentle breeze, and the sounds of birds chirping in the trees, everything felt like the joy of spring. At a corner, I heard a familiar barking sound; it was the little wolf dog that had been lost. It looked dirty and disheveled, its eyes fixed on me... it had come back! Tears immediately blurred my vision.

I excitedly let go of the leash, and the stray dog seemed to sense my emotions. It stopped, turned around, and looked at me with its sorrowful eyes. I quickly ran towards it, and it didn’t run away; instead, it wagged its tail, as if welcoming me.

I squatted down, opened my arms, and it immediately jumped into my embrace. I held it tightly, feeling its frail body. I softly called its name, and it responded with a weak voice, as if telling me it had never forgotten the way home.

I took it home, and along the way, it closely followed my feet, as if afraid of losing me again. Once home, I gave it a bath and cleaned its wounds. It lay quietly on the ground, allowing me to busy myself with it.

My uncle and aunt were moved by this scene. Although my aunt didn’t speak, her expression was no longer so indifferent. My grandfather looked at us, a hint of satisfaction flashing in his eyes, and he softly said, "This dog is truly loyal and affectionate."