Diana Ketchen 
The dog lay crumpled on the roadside. His screams pierced the quiet dusk. His body was a shadow of itself, bones sharp under matted fur. Nobody stopped. Cars passed, their lights fleeting. The world moved on, but he stayed, trembling, his voice a raw plea. His front paw was black with rot, swollen, oozing. How …
The dog lay in the trash heap. Her ribs pressed against her skin, sharp and desperate. Blood seeped from wounds, matting her fur, a pointer bred for hunting, now discarded like garbage. We found her by chance. Driving past the dump, her faint whimper caught us. She was exhausted, her body torn, her eyes hollow …
The snow fell hard that day. A puppy lay trembling in the cold, his small body curled tight. He was alone on the street. Passersby hurried past, their faces turned away. His whimpers were soft, lost in the wind. Snow clung to his fur, a white shroud over his shivering frame. Nobody knew how he …
The puppy lay in the dirt, barely breathing. His ribs poked through his skin like twigs. I couldn’t stop crying when I saw him, his tiny body trembling in the cold. He was two months old, a baby. Starved, frozen, his blood sugar so low he was fading. I scooped him up, held him tight, …
The dogs were trapped. Their eyes, dull with pain, stared through the filth. A rented house, hidden in a quiet neighborhood, held a secret. The police called us. They needed help. Inside, the air was thick, sour with neglect. Hounds, terriers, and tiny mutts lay in their own waste. Some trembled. Others didn’t move. The …
The dog circled endlessly in the yard. Her eyes, wide and sad, begged for something she couldn’t name. She was young, barely a year and a half, but her body carried old wounds. I saw her through the neighbor girl’s words, a girl who whispered about the dog’s fear and sorrow. The girl’s voice trembled …
She lay in the dirt, barely breathing. Her eyes, once bright, were clouded with pain. The alley was silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves. Valentina’s body was a skeleton, her skin stretched tight over bones that jutted like broken branches. She was forgotten, discarded like trash behind a crumbling wall. The world had …
The dog lay trembling at the building’s entrance. Blood matted his fur, his left hind leg twisted unnaturally. He was young, barely a year old, with soft brown eyes that held fear and pain. A woman’s voice cracked over the phone. She sobbed, begging for help. The dog, she said, wouldn’t survive without it. We …
The greyhound staggered through the empty street. His ribs pressed sharp against his skin. His eyes, wide with fear, darted at every sound. Hunger had carved him hollow. He moved like a ghost, frail and trembling, a rope dangling from his neck, cut rough and jagged. We watched him from a distance, hearts heavy. How …
The box sat sealed on the junkyard’s edge. It was taped shut, discarded like trash. Inside, a dog whimpered. The junk collectors cracked it open. A skinny hound bolted out, tape still clinging to her leg. She ran in frantic circles, nose low, searching for a scent that wasn’t there. Her eyes were wide, desperate. …
The dog lay curled in a pipe, trembling. His world was dark, his body broken. Fear clung to him like dust. The pitbull, thin as a shadow, pressed himself deeper into the cold metal. A mountain road stretched above, empty, silent. He was alone, abandoned, his head wound seeping, his eyes useless. Hunger gnawed at …
The puppy lay in the dirt, her small body curled tight. Chains bit into her neck. Nese, five months old, knew nothing of play or warmth. Her world was a rusted link and a barren farm. The subtitles of the video told her story in fragments, but her eyes spoke louder. They were dull, heavy …
The chain was tight against her neck. She stood alone, tied to a rusted fence. The night was cold, and the street was empty. Nobody saw her. She trembled, her eyes wide with fear. Her belly hung low, heavy with unborn pups. She was young, maybe three years old, but her body carried the weight …
The yard was a mess of dirt and despair. Two dogs lay there, their fur matted, their eyes heavy with hunger. They were left behind. A man went on vacation, his bags packed, his heart cold. He left his dogs in that yard, forgotten, with no food, no water, just the trash they scrounged to …
The puppies huddled in the dirt, their ribs sharp against thin skin. Their eyes, big and trembling, held no mischief, only fear. They were five, barely alive, curled together in a corner of a yard. The owner said they chased his chickens. He said they needed a lesson. His words were cold, like the ground …