In our country the well was without a cover and a wandering dog hit there. The well is not deep, in a couple of rings of all, and there was not much water, but the dog could not get out, and therefore walked with a good dog mat to the whole district. We were not in the country at the time, a couple of hours later two neighbors (40+ and 70+) crossed through our site to save the unfortunate animal. They didn't come up with anything smarter than handing a dog (although long boards were rolled nearby, and a staircase was on the street nearby), for which this frightened animal grabbed his teeth.

The result was extensive, equal wounds, a hospital, seams and probably 40 rabies injections.

The next day a neighbor came up with demands for treatment and moral damage, said you have a well on the site is not closed and in general, my daughter suffered from for you, bla bla bla. To the reasonable question of what kind of shit she decided to give a hand to the wandering dog, she replied something like "the count was for seconds, the dog died and there was no time to think." A few months later, she tried to demand something from us, wrote some complaints, and so on.

My mother and son are three years old and are on the bus and playing games. The mother begins the word, the little one ends.

You are mine...

and Zik.

You are my co...

and TIK.

You are mine for...

The heart...

When a government has nothing to boast about, it begins to boast about the past.

My office is in Uritsky, right on the border with the private sector. Somewhere there lives a man with a pony who rides children on the Colour Boulevard.
He often hits me in the morning, when he walks to the square, where he usually returns with the onset of darkness. By that time, he is already thoroughly subdued and rides, sitting on a barley pony with his brushes. In his hands he always has a bank of beer, his apparently a check shot in front of the house.
Pony, at the same time, he no longer pursues and does not stumble, he knows the road well and does not rush home. Only occasionally he quietly scratches and then the man slides and something whispers to him in the ear decorated with colorful sticks.
Tolerance is called interpersonal relationships.
In quarantine, the boulevard was closed, there was no one to ride and they were completely missing.
And here, apparently, yesterday allowed, I go down to the car in the evening, I see this man at home on a pony. The same crazy, with an unchanged pot, everything is as it should be.
I don't know why, but I was delighted with him and even greeted him with my hand.
He was not surprised at all, only quietly sneered as a familiar and went on.
Cock-cock to Cock
I think we will go out now, once such urban-forming enterprises have worked out.

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Svetlana