Fhilcar Faunillani 
The old dog lay in the corner, his fur matted and thin. His eyes, once bright, held a quiet sorrow. He had guarded his owner’s home for ten years. Loyal, unwavering, he stood watch through cold nights and long days. But loyalty was not returned. Neglected, forgotten, he was left in a shadowed pen, no …
The dog lay still, a crumpled shadow on the roadside. His eyes, crusted shut, held no light. Flies buzzed around him, drawn to the stench of decay. He was so thin, like paper folded too many times. Someone knelt beside him, offering food, but he couldn’t lift his head. Not a whimper, not a twitch. …
The grass was cold under his broken body. His eyes, wide and trembling, held a silent plea. Blood seeped into the earth. The car’s taillights faded into the night. She drove away—a veterinarian who left him to die. Two strangers saw it all. Their voices shook as they called for help. They knelt beside him, …
The dog lay in the alley, her ribs sharp against her skin. Her eyes, dull with hunger, watched the restaurant door. She didn’t move when the waiter shooed her. She just looked, hoping for a scrap, a kind glance. The door slammed shut. Her head sank to the pavement, too weak to hold up. She …
The old man’s stick fell hard. A small puppy crumpled under its weight, her tiny body trembling on the cold ground. Her whimpers were soft, barely audible. Passersby stopped, their voices sharp with urgency, trying to pull the man back. He didn’t listen. His eyes burned with something dark, something that saw no value in …
The phone rang at dawn, a woman’s shy voice on the line. “Can you help a puppy?” she asked, her words trembling with worry. A small dog had followed her, limping, hungry, alone. I drove through the early morning mist, the world still half-asleep. The woman stood by a quiet road, her hands clasped tightly. …
The old dog lay trembling in the cold. His eyes, clouded with time, still searched for someone who wasn’t there. Wenwen was a shadow of himself. His brittle body curled tight against the wind. Locals tossed scraps, draped a blanket over him. They saw his heart, broken but beating, and called for help. The rescue …
The puppy lay stiff, his tiny body locked in pain. His eyes, bright with fight, begged silently. Bosley was six weeks old, alone in a world too big for him. A stray, one of a forgotten litter, he wandered until a silent enemy found him. Tetanus, a cruel thief, crept into his small frame. No …
The puppy limped through the morning mist, tail wagging like a faint metronome. His eyes, one swollen shut, held a spark that tugged at my heart. We saw him first on a Saturday, trailing two boys down a sunlit path. His tiny paws danced, chasing their laughter. My family smiled from the car, charmed by …
The chain clinked softly against the tree. Buddy, a Labrador with eyes like warm coffee, lay in the dirt, his fur matted from summer heat. His water bowl sat cloudy, untouched. He lifted his head when the rescue team’s truck rumbled into the village, his tail thumping the ground. A spark of hope flickered in …
The dog’s eyes caught the dim light, wide and trembling. Four years in a rusted cage. His world was cold iron and filth. The floor, crusted with dirt, held his fragile weight. His fur, matted into a dull gray shell, clung to his bones like a heavy memory. A neighbor’s voice broke the silence. “It’s …
The dog lay still, her ribs sharp under thin fur. Dust settled on her as cars passed. No one stopped. She waited anyway, eyes searching for kindness that never came. Her name was Odji, though no one knew it then. She was a shadow on the roadside, forgotten. Her body, frail and trembling, held only …
The puppy lay curled tight against the gravel, a small shadow on the highway’s edge. His eyes, half-open, held a tired hope that cut through the dusk. He didn’t move when I stepped closer. His fur was matted, thin, clinging to ribs that showed too clearly. A faint tremble ran through him, like he was …
The dog’s ribs pressed against her skin. She lay beside a ditch, her eyes half-closed. Her body was thin, too thin, like a shadow stretched across the dirt. She’d crawled to a stranger’s house, her paws scraping the ground, searching for something—someone—to help. The air smelled of rot, but she stayed, her breath shallow, waiting. …
The Pomeranian’s eyes were wide, trembling under a gnarled oak. She was alone, her white fur matted with dirt. Her small body shook as a breeze stirred the leaves above. She didn’t bark or whimper. She just waited, her gaze fixed on the empty yard. A neighbor had seen her like this for weeks, tethered …