“Thrown in!” interrupted a little, white poodle dog in one corner of the wagon. “That’s it—you were thrown in—I saw you!”
“That is right, I was thrown in,” said Don. “I’d gladly go out, if I could, and make more room for you, but I can’t,” and he looked at the dogs and the tightly closed door.
“No, you can’t get out,” growled the yellow dog who had said there would be more room soon. “We’ll just have to crowd up a little closer, that’s all. But we’ll soon have plenty of room to move about.”
“You said that before,” spoke the little poodle dog. “How do you know?”
“Because I have been there,” was the answer. “I was caught once before, just as I was this time, and taken to the pound. But a boy came and bought me, so I was allowed to go.”
I forgot to tell you that sometimes people who want a dog go to the pound, pick one out of those that have been caught, and buy it, taking it away to give it a good home.
“I hope some one buys me,” thought Don. “I don’t like this life, living like a tramp, with no good place to sleep, and no nice things to eat.”
The wagon rumbled on to the city pound, and there the dogs were allowed to go out, and run about in a yard, all fenced in with wire. There were many other dogs there, little ones and big ones, nice ones, and some that were not so nice. Some of them snarled and barked, and some tried to get out, but could not.
“Oh dear!” cried one little poodle dog, whose silken hair showed that he was used to a good home. “Oh dear! I don’t like it here. Oh, stop!” he cried, as a bigger dog tried to bite him.