Under the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, I sat on the cold, unforgiving curb, shivering against the biting wind. My ribs pressed against my thin, dirty coat, a stark reminder of the meals I had gone without. My name? I don’t have one. At least, not anymore. Once, someone must have called me something, but those memories are lost in the fog of neglect and hunger.
For days—maybe weeks—I had been here, hoping for something, someone. Each passing car sent a fleeting surge of hope through my small, frail body. Each pair of footsteps made my ears perk up, tail thumping weakly against the pavement. But they never stopped. No one stopped.
The world was noisy, fast, and full of movement, yet it felt so distant from me, like I was invisible. Sometimes, I wondered if I was. But then, hunger would gnaw at my belly, and the ache in my legs would remind me that I was very much real.
One night, as the rain began to fall, I curled into a ball to preserve what little warmth I had left. Drops of water seeped into my fur, and the cold felt sharper than ever. I closed my eyes, not sure if they would open again, when I heard it—a voice.
“Oh, you poor thing,” a soft, trembling voice said.
I opened my eyes cautiously. A young woman knelt beside me, her umbrella tilted awkwardly as she tried to shield me from the rain. Her eyes were kind but filled with sadness as she took in my pitiful state. She reached out, and for a moment, I flinched. Hands had not always been kind to me.
But her touch was different. Gentle. Warm. She stroked my head, whispering soothing words I couldn’t fully understand but felt deep in my heart. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll take care of you.”
Before I knew it, she had wrapped me in her coat and carried me to her car. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt safe. The hum of the engine and the warmth of her lap lulled me into a peaceful sleep.
The next few days were a blur of kindness. She gave me food—real food, not the scraps I was used to scavenging from garbage bins. She bathed me, her hands careful and patient as she washed away the dirt and grime. I was given a soft bed to sleep on, and for the first time in my life, I felt clean and full.
She called me Buddy. It was the first name I’d had in a long time, and it felt like a promise: I was no longer alone.
Buddy.
I learned to trust again in her home. She showed me that not all humans were unkind. She spoke to me as though I could understand every word, and maybe I could. Her voice was a balm to my soul, her laughter a melody I wanted to hear forever.
As weeks turned into months, I began to heal—not just physically, but emotionally too. My ribs no longer jutted out, and my coat grew shiny and thick. I learned how to wag my tail with abandon, to chase after balls in the yard, and to snuggle on the couch without fear.
Sometimes, when we went for walks, I’d see dogs like me—thin, wary, and alone. My heart ached for them. I wished they could know the warmth of a loving home, just like I had found.
One rainy evening, as we sat by the window, I lay my head on her lap and looked up at her with eyes full of gratitude. She smiled down at me, scratching behind my ears.
“You saved me too, Buddy,” she said softly.
I don’t know what she meant by that, but I knew one thing for sure: she was my person, and I was her dog. Together, we had found something precious—a second chance at life.
