暴雨刚过,昏暗的街道上没有一个人,浑浊的雨水积在坑坑洼洼的路面上,偶尔驶来一辆车,雨水便不安分地溅起,滴落在冰冷的人行道上。路旁躺着一条狗,无力地趴在污浊的泥水里,嘴一张一翕缓慢地呼吸着,头上被污水染黑的毛发遮住了它的双眼。这是一条病狗。它静静地躺在那儿,不动弹也不呻吟,绝望地等待着死神的降临。一位流浪汉从马路的那一头走来,停在了这条狗的身边。流浪汉看上去五十来岁,身上披着一件破旧的黑色雨衣,憔悴的脸上露出关心与怜悯的神情。流浪汉脱下自己的雨衣,俯下身来,小心翼翼地将狗儿用雨农包裹好,抱在怀里回到了他所谓的家里——一个破旧的桥洞。 After the torrential rain had passed, there was not a single person on the dimly-lit street. The turbid rain accumulated on the cratered road. Occasionally, a car was driven in, and the rain splashed indiscriminately on the cold sidewalk. There was a dog lying beside the road, unable to squat in the muddy water, breathing slowly and slowly, his head covered with darkened black hair covering his eyes. This is a sick dog. It lay there quietly, and did not move without moving, desperately waiting for the advent of death. A tramp came from the other side of the road and stopped by the dog. The wanderer looked fifty years old and wore an old black raincoat with a look of compassion and compassion on his face. The wanderer took off his raincoat and leaned over and carefully wrapped the dog with the rain farmer. He wandered back to his so-called home, a worn bridge hole.