Fhilcar Faunillani 
Her small body trembled on the cold kennel floor. No blanket, no warmth, just a fragile puppy struggling to move. The call came late, after midnight. A voice, hurried and sharp, described a puppy in trouble. Neurological issues, they said. I watched the video they sent, her tiny frame writhing on metal bars. My chest …
The sun hung low, casting gold over the fairground. Tumba’s tail wagged, brushing the dust. Children laughed, their voices weaving through the hum of rides. She darted between them, a small brown dog with eyes that trusted everyone. Then, a shadow fell. A man, unsteady, raised a hammer. Parents turned away, shielding young faces. Tumba …
The dog sat by the gate. His eyes, clouded with pain, never left the door. Manguito’s fur was patchy, his body frail. Once, he’d been a family’s joy. Now, abandoned, he waited. His mouth, raw from worms, ached with every breath. Scars crisscrossed his small frame. Hunger clawed at his belly, but he stayed. The …
The stars were sharp above the Oregon mountains. I drove toward my campsite, craving silence. Then, something small stirred on the road. Not debris—a puppy, curled tight, barely alive. I pulled over, heart heavy. His ribs jutted out, his fur matted with filth. Tired eyes met mine. He didn’t run. He couldn’t. Fear held him, …
The dog lay still on the cold asphalt. His eyes, wet with tears, followed the stranger who stopped his car. The man knelt beside him, gentle but urgent. The dog’s body was limp, his fur matted with dirt and blood. Only his head moved, a faint tilt toward the voice that spoke softly, promising help. …
The puppy shivered outside the shop. Its fur was damp, matted from the morning’s rain. People hurried past, their coats pulled tight against the chill. The puppy’s eyes, wet and wide, followed them. It didn’t bark. It didn’t move. It just sat, trembling, on the cold pavement. I stopped. Something about its stillness tugged at …
The shop door creaked open, and two dogs stood still, pressed close. Their fur was a tangled, dirty mess, hiding small wounds that whispered of neglect. No one saw them at first. Shoppers passed, their eyes on shelves, not the floor. The dogs didn’t move, didn’t bark, just leaned into each other. A mother and …
The man walked his dog at dusk, the sky soft with fading light. Two kittens, small as whispers, huddled near a fence, alone. Their eyes were closed, their fur matted with dirt. I knelt closer, searching for a mother cat. Nothing. No tracks, no scent, no sound. The night was coming, cold and heavy. My …
The kitten was alone, shivering on the farmer’s market table. Its tiny cries barely reached me. The crowd moved past, their voices loud, their boots heavy on the frosty ground. I waited, hoping its mother would appear. She didn’t. The air was sharp, biting at my fingers, and the kitten’s mews grew faint. I scooped …
The cat followed her, limping but determined, his tail flicking like a metronome. She stopped, heart catching at his missing ears, his stunted front legs. He didn’t meow. He didn’t need to. His eyes, wide and searching, spoke of hunger and hope. She walked home, the cat trailing her shadow, step by uneven step. In …
The rain fell soft on the windshield, blurring the road. Meng saw her first—a tiny shape, trembling, alone. He stopped the car. The kitten was small, barely bigger than his hand, her fur matted with mud. She didn’t move when he knelt beside her, only stared with wide, frightened eyes. He lifted her gently, her …
Gray saw her curled on the roadside, eyes sealed shut, trembling. A tiny life, alone, unnoticed. People passed, their steps quick, their eyes elsewhere. Gray, never a cat person, stood frozen. Something in her smallness, her helplessness, held him. He waited. No one stopped. The thought came slow, heavy: She won’t survive if I leave. …
The kitten’s cries were soft, almost lost in the hum of the street. Aru stopped, his heart tugging at the sound. A small crowd had gathered, their voices low, their eyes fixed on something small and trembling. A kitten, barely two months old, crouched in the dirt. Its fur was matted, wet from rain or …
The kitten’s cry was faint, trembling, like a whisper lost in the night. Melanie stopped, her heart catching the sound before her ears did. She stood by the roadside, the trash can looming in the dark. Her husband, John, crouched beside her, his breath visible in the cold. The meow came again, sharper now, from …
The rain tapped softly on the window. A gray cat, wild and wary, crouched in the shadows of a neighbor’s porch, her kittens hidden nearby. Her eyes glinted with distrust. She was feral, untouched by human hands. Yet, her tiny kittens, barely a week old, needed her. We watched from a distance, hearts heavy with …