One quiet morning, I was on my way to Sunday School. I was walking past the graveyeard when I heard a soft, low whinning sound behind a tombstone. Petrified, I started to walk away but just at that moment I also had the urge to look at what was behind the tombstone. I was petrified but my curiosity got the better of me. I started to walk around the tombstone when I saw a bull dog.
I was relieved and yet I was worried as the bulldog did not seem to have any cuts or injuries and yet it was still whinning in pain. I decided to take the small and brown bulldog to the vet at 221 Baker Street. At the hospital for pets, I went to the counter and took a queue number. I waited for my turn patiently. The hospital was full of animals and people. One man had a parrot with a bent beak. Another man had his hamster stuck in a container for tablets and one woman had a poodle with its head stuck in a kettle. When it was finally my turn to see the vet, the bulldog was snoring away. The young lady who was the vet was about twenty six years old. The vet examined the bulldog which I had named "Bull". She said that "Bull" had a broken leg and a broken bone on the ribcage. I was releived as I thought "Bull" had injred his brain or something.
When I got home, my parents asked me why I didn't go to Sunday school and what was the bulldog doing in my hand. I explained to my parents what happened and finally I asked them whether I could keep it. After some persuasion, they agreed. I was as happy as a dog with two tails.