Diana Ketchen 
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 …
The puppy lay shivering in the wet grass. His tiny body trembled, eyes wide with pain. A man found him on his way to work. He was old, his face lined with years. He stopped, knelt, and saw the puppy’s broken form. The pup whimpered, unable to stand. The man’s hands shook as he lifted …
The dog lay on the cold pavement, her body curled tight. Her eyes searched blindly, left, then right, desperate for something she’d never find. The children saw her first. “A man left her here,” they said, their voices small. “He walked away and didn’t look back.” She was a small dog, shivering in the dirt, …
The snow fell thick and silent. A dog dragged himself forward, hind legs limp, useless. His name was Bagel. His eyes, dark and heavy, stared into the distance. The cold bit at his fur, but he moved on, aimless, through the endless white. Each pull of his front paws was a quiet fight. He didn’t …
The puppy lay curled in a nest of trash. His small body trembled, hidden among the landfill’s decay. Bites marred his skin. His neck oozed pus. His eyes, barely open, held a quiet terror. Dexter, just a month old, had seen too much. His mother was gone. His siblings, torn apart by wild animals. He …
The dog lay in the dirt, her body trembling. Pain carved deep lines into her matted fur. She cried softly, a sound that broke the stillness of the village street. Two days had passed. No one stopped for her. Neighbors glanced, then turned away. Her whimpers grew weaker. The sun burned her back. Fleas and …