At some point, a car passed by on the road and slowed down. The driver looked, hesitated, and drove on. I saw the puppy lift its head as if it recognized him: indifference. It had probably tried to stop many others before us. And no one had stopped. I thought about that and felt a collective shame, as if all of humanity had failed for a moment.
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When the rescue truck finally arrived, the dog was breathing a little better, but she was still weak. We carefully lifted her in. The puppy tried to jump in too and almost fell over in excitement. I picked him up and placed him next to her. As soon as he touched his mother’s body, he calmed down, as if his job was finally done.
At the vet’s, they explained that the dog was dehydrated and very stressed, but that if she responded to the IV fluids and could rest, she had a chance. “Chance” is a strange word. Sometimes it sounds like hope; other times, it sounds like a coin toss. I’m not much of a prayer, but that night, while I was signing papers and listening to the IV drip, I made a kind of silent promise: if she lived, I was going to do more than just say “what a shame.”
Hours passed. The puppy, who hadn’t stopped looking at his mother the whole way, now slept in fits and starts, exhausted.
His fur was rough, his belly sunken in, and yet, even asleep, he seemed on guard. Every time his mother moved, he woke up. That connection made me think about all the times we humans say “I can’t” and give up. But this tiny creature hadn’t accepted defeat. He had sought help… and had the audacity to ask for it from anyone who would listen.
