Diana Ketchen 
The dog staggered along the empty street. Her legs trembled, barely holding her weight. Cars sped by, their tires humming on the asphalt. No one stopped. No one looked. Her fur was matted, patched with scars. A deep wound gaped across her face. She was thin—too thin. Her ribs pressed against her skin like branches …
The dog stood at the edge of the yard, her chain taut. Her bark was faint, almost a whisper. She saw us and her eyes widened. She lunged forward, the chain yanking her back. Her fur was matted, her ribs sharp beneath her skin. She hadn’t eaten in days. The collar dug into her neck, …
The gate creaked at 1:15 a.m. A man stood there, his shadow sharp under the shelter’s dim light.He held a puppy, small and trembling, and struck it hard, his curses low and bitter. The camera caught it all. His quick glance around, checking for eyes in the dark.He left the pup crumpled by the gate, …
The old dog lay in the dirt, ribs sharp against her skin. Her eyes, clouded but bright, watched the world with quiet hope. She was called Rosie. The man who owned her said she was fifteen. Too old, he said. Useless. He called me one gray morning, his voice flat. “Take the dog,” he said. …
The puppy lay flat in the dust, his body stiff as a board. His weak cries pierced the empty air, pulling at something deep in the chest. He was alone in the wasteland, a patch of cracked earth where nothing grew. His name was Enzo, though we learned that later. His eyes, wide and wet, …
She stood alone on the cracked earth, her eyes searching. The construction site was silent now. Once, she had been their guard dog, fierce and loyal, her barks echoing through the night. Now, the workers were gone, the building finished, and she was left behind, pregnant and abandoned. Her name was never spoken. They called …
The rain fell hard on Logan’s broken body. He lay by the road, shivering, crying out in pain. His whimpers cut through the storm. No one stopped. Cars sped by, their tires spraying water. Passersby glanced, then turned away. Logan’s eyes, wide with fear, begged for help. He was a small dog, barely a year …
The man walked through the park. Something caught his eye—a sack, discarded, moving faintly. He froze. The sack twitched again, a small, desperate stir. He knelt, heart pounding, and opened it. Inside was a dog, curled tight, a heap of bones and scars. Her body was wasted, ribs jutting like cruel ridges under thin skin. …
The puppy lay in a trash bag, discarded like waste. His tiny body shivered, barely alive. The umbilical cord still clung to him, a cruel reminder of his newborn state. His leg was twisted, shattered beyond repair. The bone gleamed white through torn skin, already dead. Someone had beaten him, abandoned him, left him to …
She lay on the cold pavement, her swollen belly rising and falling with shallow breaths. The shopping mall buzzed with life, but no one stopped for the pregnant dog. Hundreds passed her by. Their shoes clicked on the concrete. Some glanced, then looked away. One man nudged her leg with his foot and stepped aside. …
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 …