The call came late in the day. A tip about a litter of puppies dumped somewhere near a roadside trash pile. No coordinates. Just “somewhere near the trees.”
It took hours to reach the area. The roadside stretched endlessly, lined with thick brush and scattered garbage. The search turned up nothing. Not a sound, not a sign. Darkness fell. We turned back—unsure, uneasy, unwilling to give up.
The next morning brought new resolve. We returned to the same road, combing through the trees once more. Then, tucked among discarded cans and crumpled bags, we spotted a dark sack.
We reached in. One tiny body was alive. Shaking and barely responsive. It was a black pup with a soft white patch on its chin. His eyes were open, wide with fear. The rest? They didn’t make it.
He was placed gently in a crate, alongside a shallow bowl of water and a bit of jelly food. He didn’t eat at first. We covered him with a soft cloth, set the crate on the front seat, and drove in silence.
Once home, warmth took over. A bath soothed the grime and fear from his fur. He was filthy, but quiet. We wrapped him in a thick towel, and his breathing began to slow.
He ate carefully at first, then hungrily. Yoghurt was his favorite. A small tail wag followed. We settled him onto a cushion by the heater. He curled up there like it had always been his place.
He’s small with black fur and a white chin. Alone now—but safe. His journey started in the darkest place imaginable, but he made it out. And from this day forward, he’ll never be left behind again.
