Lola Was Left to Die—But She Chose to Live
She was lying on her side, not moving.
There was dust in her fur and blood on her tongue.
When the call came in, they said it was just another street dog. Hit by a car, probably. Happens all the time. But when the rescuers arrived, they knew right away this wasn’t that kind of story.
She wasn’t broken from the outside.
She was broken from the inside.
Her bones jutted out like coat hangers under a sheet. Her skin was tight and dry, clinging to her ribs. No wounds from a collision. Just the quiet violence of starvation. Rope burns around her neck. Matted fur where she had lain too long on cold cement.
This dog, barely a year old, had been abandoned. Not lost.
Left.
They named her Lola.
She couldn’t stand. Couldn’t move. Her muscles had wasted away from hunger. And still, her coat was oddly clean. Too clean for a stray. Someone had once bathed her, maybe brushed her, maybe even kissed her head before deciding she wasn’t worth keeping.
Her eyes didn’t plead. They had moved past that. They just stared—dry and far-off—as if waiting for it all to be over.
But the rescuers weren’t ready to let go. They saw a flicker in her. Not hope exactly. Just the absence of surrender.
They brought her in, ran tests. Her fever was low. Her blood was thin. She was positive for disease, and her lungs were filling with blood. She bled from her nose, from her mouth. But still, she blinked. And that was enough for them.
They started treatment. Fluids, rich food, rest, silence.
On the second day, she ate.
It wasn’t much—a soft spoonful, a tiny gesture—but it felt like a battle won. That night, she lifted her head. The next morning, she licked a hand.
Day by day, Lola’s soul came back. Not in some grand way. She didn’t leap or bark or wag her tail like in the movies. Instead, she simply stayed alive. And that was enough.
They stayed with her. Around the clock. They cooked special meals, spoon-fed her, cleaned her wounds, whispered words she didn’t understand but might have felt.
Day ten. The worst had passed.
She stood on shaky legs, like a foal. Took a few steps. Her tail moved slightly, unsure of itself. Her eyes now held something different. Not trust, not yet. But curiosity.
Her ribs still showed. Her frame was fragile. But inside, the work had already begun.
And then came the call.
A woman, older, gentle. She had seen the story. Asked no questions. Just offered a home.
She covered every medical bill. Signed every paper. Walked in, sat on the floor, and waited for Lola to come to her.
It took a moment.
But Lola did. Slowly, carefully, she leaned her head against the woman’s knee and sighed. Like a child returning home.
It wasn’t a fairytale ending. It was better.
It was real.
In her new home, Lola learned the quiet rhythm of safety. She slept without fear. Ate without hurry. Grew soft again, filled out. Her coat thickened. Her steps steadied. Her eyes grew warm.
There was no more concrete. No more hunger. No more waiting.
Now there were blankets, and toys, and a bowl with her name. Gentle hands, kind words, slow walks. She had a bed in the sun and someone who watched over her when she slept.
She had been left to die. And now, she was more alive than ever.
For those who rescued her, Lola’s recovery was a reminder of something simple and sacred: we don’t always need to fix the whole world. Sometimes, we just need to hold one life together long enough for healing to begin.
And for Lola, the world did change. All of it.
From silence to warmth. From pain to peace. From forgotten… to loved.
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