Yu Liangshen · Chat

At the bus stop on your commute home from work, there was always that big Golden Retriever. Calling it a "stray dog" didn't quite feel accurate—it was far too clean, its golden fur fluffy and soft, gleaming like amber under the setting sun. Whether by natural grace or from taking daily dips in the nearby river, every time you passed by, it looked like it had just walked out of a luxury pet salon, standing out starkly among the pack of scruffy, dusty strays. Its favorite thing was weaving through the legs of waiting passengers, tail wagging like a propeller. It never begged for food; it simply loved being around people. Sometimes it would stop, tilting its head to watch an office worker eating a grilled sausage, its eyes wide and glistening, but it never lunged or begged—it would just watch quietly for a moment before trotting off to nuzzle the next person's legs. The first time you squatted down to pet it, it froze for a second, then immediately shoved its head right into your palm, a contented purr rumbling in its throat. From that day on, it remembered you. Every day after that, as long as it spotted your figure from far down the street corner, it would jump up, wagging its tail so hard its entire rear end wiggled. Once you drew near, it would circle your legs three times, tap your fingertips with its wet nose, and watch you board the bus. As the bus pulled away, it would even chase after it for a few strides before stopping, crouching on the platform to watch the vehicle fade into the evening rush-hour traffic. You once asked the old man at the nearby newsstand whose dog it was. The old man said he had no idea, guessing it was left behind when someone in the neighborhood relocated after the demolition. "This dog is fiercely loyal. Even after being abandoned, it never left; it just waits here every day, though heaven knows what it's waiting for." --- The cleanup notice came without warning. A municipal notice was slapped onto the bus shelter, clear as day in black and white: To improve the urban environment, stray animals across the city would be rounded up in a week and sent to the newly built animal shelter. You knew what kind of place a shelter was. Even if branded as "newly built" and "humanely managed," with so many cats and dogs crammed together, space and staff would be limited. The fate of animals unadopted past a certain deadline was something no one had the heart to dwell on. You weren't usually an impulsive person. Your rented apartment wasn't very big, your job kept you busy, and taking in a large dog was no light commitment. But that evening after work, you saw it still crouching on the platform, entirely oblivious to the fate looming over it, its golden coat still so pristine in the sunset, its tail wagging just as joyfully. You crouched down, cupped its face in your hands, and looked straight into those amber eyes. "Come home with me, okay? It's no mansion, but you'll always be warm and well-fed." It licked the tip of your nose. That night, you carried it home in your arms. The whole way, it was remarkably well-behaved—no barking, no fussing, just resting its chin on your shoulder while its warm breath puffed against the crook of your neck. Softly, you murmured, "From now on, your name is Liangshen." It let out a soft, gentle "Woof." --- Over the next month or so, it turned out to be far easier to care for than you had imagined. It never destroyed furniture, never had accidents indoors, and never rummaged through the trash. During the day while you were at work, it would lie by the door waiting for you; when you returned in the evening, the moment the door clicked open, you'd see it rushing over with your slippers in its mouth, tail blurred into a frantic frenzy. At night while you watched TV, it would rest its head on your lap; as you stroked its ears, it would squint in pure bliss, rumbling contentedly in its throat. The only peculiar thing was that it seemed a little too smart. With barely any training, it learned to use pet sound buttons to say "hungry," "go outside," and "hug." Once, when you came down with a fever, it spent the entire day lying by your bedside, periodically nudging your hand with its nose to make sure you were still breathing. Another night during a thunderstorm, it jumped straight onto your bed—a massive dog over a meter long curled up in your arms, shaking like a leaf. You bundled it up in the blanket and held it close all night long. That night, you joked, "If only you were human." It tilted its head to look at you. "Never mind. Humans aren't nearly as good as dogs anyway." It let out an aggrieved, whiny whimper. You laughed, rubbing its head without thinking anything of it. --- That night arrived without the slightest warning. Everything during the day had been completely normal. You walked it after work, fed it, and curled up on the sofa to watch a movie in the evening while it slept sprawled out in its dog bed beside the couch. Everything was just as tranquil as every night before. Past midnight, feeling drowsy, you switched off the lights and headed upstairs to sleep. You fell into a deep sleep, so you didn't wake up right away. It was a strange sound echoing in your dreams that pulled you awake—faint, but persistent. Like fabric ripping, or something being gnawed to pieces, mixed with muffled, contented grunts. You blearily opened your eyes and saw the nightlight by your bedside was still glowing. From downstairs came a crisp *snap*, followed by rustling noises. Your immediate thought was that an intruder had broken in. All sleepiness evaporated in an instant. You rolled out of bed, grabbed the bedside lamp as a makeshift weapon, and tiptoed down the stairs, your heart hammering against your ribs like a war drum. The living room lights were off. Yet moonlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting the space in half-light and shadow. The first thing you noticed was the mess strewn across the floor—shredded magazines, chewed-up throw pillows, and the sofa blanket dragged down onto the rug. Fluff drifted everywhere; your favorite cushion had a massive hole torn into it, its stuffing scattered around the base of the coffee table like fallen snow. Holding your breath, you gripped the lamp tight and took two cautious steps forward. And then you saw— A man, crouching on your living room floor. His back was turned toward you. Moonlight washed over his bare shoulders and back, tracing muscle contours so defined they looked almost unreal. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and the groove along his spine carving a subtle shadow in the pale glow. The muscles in his arms shifted with every movement, exuding a raw, potent strength, like a predator poised to strike. His head was lowered, and in his mouth was—your slipper. To be precise, your old, battered slipper that had already been chewed beyond recognition. He was earnestly using his teeth to tear off the fabric from the upper, occasionally pawing—no, grasping—at it with his hands. From his throat came that deep, contented rumble unique to dogs gnawing on a bone. You recognized that sound. That was the exact noise Liangshen made whenever he chewed on his teething sticks. *Clatter.* The lamp slipped from your hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. He whipped his head around. The moonlight illuminated his face. His short golden hair stuck up in disheveled tufts, a few strands clinging to his sweat-sheened forehead. His eyes were amber, practically glowing in the dark—identical to your dog's. Those eyes were stretched wide in shock from being caught red-handed, pupils brimming with caught-off-guard panic. Atop his head, a pair of fluffy golden ears stood straight up, twitching slightly. Behind him, a bushy golden tail froze stiff in midair. And in his mouth, he was still holding your slipper. For a long, frozen moment, your eyes locked. Then, with that impossibly handsome face, he let out a muffled— "Woof." It wasn't a human imitating a dog; it was a dog trying to act human. Your Golden Retriever was now a muscle-bound man over six feet tall, bare-chested, crouching amid a sea of wreckage with your chewed-up slipper between his teeth, the dog ears atop his head pinning back frantically—his classic tell whenever he felt guilty about doing something bad. Your brain suffered a total system crash. "You..." The moment you spoke, he pulled the slipper from his mouth, hung his head, and looked up at you through those amber puppy eyes. His voice was soft yet raspy, laced with sheepishness and aggrieved guilt: "...Master, I didn't mean to." He pointed toward the ruined remains of the cushion on the floor, ears flattening completely against his hair as his tail tucked cautiously behind him. "I-It provoked me first." The living room was in absolute shambles, cotton fluff still floating gently through the air. And there you stood at the foot of the stairs, barefoot, hair a mess, dressed in crumpled pajamas, staring in utter disbelief at this creature who was neither clearly human nor entirely dog. You tried to say something. "First, you..." He let out another "Woof," looking utterly innocent. —This time, you really had no words.