Fhilcar Faunillani 
The rain fell hard, soaking the sidewalk. A tiny puppy lay still, his fur matted and dark. His eyes, wide and frightened, flickered in the streetlight’s glow. A stranger had found him, carried him from the road. The man’s hands were gentle, his voice low. The puppy, too weak to move, whimpered softly. I arrived …
The puppy lay in the corner of the yard, her ribs sharp against her thin fur. Her eyes, wide and soft, followed the shadow of a passing cloud. She was alone. The house behind her stood empty, its windows dark, the air still. Her owners had left for vacation, their suitcases rolling out the gate …
The puppy shivered under the truck, his eyes wide, catching slivers of sunlight. He thought no one saw him, and maybe he wanted it that way. In the heat of a 39-degree Celsius day, a woman spotted him, curled tight in the shade of a parked truck. His fur was matted, his body trembling—not just …
The cat sat on the cracked Brooklyn sidewalk, tail twitching. His eyes held a question no one answered. He appeared one evening, a shadow among the streetlights. Thin, with matted fur, he watched the world from a distance. The other cats, fed and familiar, hissed when he crept too close. He didn’t fight back. He …
The cat lay curled by the roadside, small and broken. His eyes, wide with confusion, met mine. I froze. Panic clawed at my chest. He was so still, so fragile, like a forgotten toy left in the rain. His faint meow, barely a whisper, broke the silence. It wasn’t a cry for attention—it was a …
The kitten’s cry was faint, barely a whisper under the car’s rusted belly. I stopped, heart sinking, as the sound tugged at me like a child’s plea. It came from a patch of shadow where oil stained the pavement. A tiny body, curled tight, lay shivering in the dirt. His fur was matted, one eye …
Emma’s boots crunched on the gravel path home, her breath visible in the chilly dusk. A faint, trembling mew stopped her heart, pulling her eyes to a tiny kitten, motionless on the cold ground. Its eyes were sealed shut, crusted over, small body curled tight against the world. Emma knelt, her scarf brushing the dirt. …
Her hands shook as she knelt by the roadside. The cat’s shallow breaths barely stirred the dust. Emily saw the stray’s eyes first—clouded, wide, clinging to life. The bushes hid her small, broken body, trembling under the weight of pain. A vendor nearby, his voice low, said she’d been there a day and a night. …
The evening was still, the California air soft and heavy. A faint rustle by the garden gate stopped me cold. My heart sank as I stepped outside. There, trembling in the dusk, stood a tiny dog. Her eyes, wide and pleading, held a flicker of hope beneath the fear. She hesitated, her frail body shaking, …
The puppy trembled in the cold, his small body curled tight against the clinic’s door. His head was swollen, eyes half-shut, fear clinging to him like damp fur. A stranger found him there, abandoned in the dark. They carried him inside, their hands gentle but urgent. The clinic lights were harsh, revealing a truth too …
The old dog lay in the dust, his gray muzzle resting on cracked pavement. His eyes, cloudy but kind, watched the world he’d always known fade. He was eleven, a guardian of an industrial yard. His days were spent trailing the night watchman, tail wagging like a metronome. The workers knew him, smiled at his …
The puppy’s cries echoed through the dusk, sharp and small against the quiet street. Our grandmother stopped, her cane tapping the ground, listening. She found him in a drain, a trembling ball of fur clinging to the slick walls. His tiny paws scratched desperately, but he couldn’t climb out. His eyes, wide with fear, locked …
The sun hadn’t risen yet. A small puppy limped toward me, eyes wide with trust. I was ready to fish with my family, rods packed, the lake calling. It was 4:30 a.m., the air cool and still. Then she appeared, a tiny shadow darting from the bushes, her fur matted, her body trembling. She didn’t …
Her eyes were sealed shut, crusted with infection. A tiny kitten, alone, trembling in the grass. The neighbor’s voice was soft, urgent. She hadn’t eaten in days. We knelt beside her, hearts sinking. The world was dark for her, darker than we could imagine. We lifted her gently, her body light as a whisper. A …
The kittens were small, their fur soft as marshmalllows. Their mother’s eyes watched, sharp and steady. She crouched in the Brooklyn backyard, her tail low, her voice a soft growl. The neighbor, gray hair tucked under a faded cap, knelt nearby, her hands empty but hopeful. She’d been trying to get the cats fixed, but …