Fhilcar Faunillani

He lay in the dust like a ghost of what a dog should be. His skin cracked and gray, like dried cement on old brick. We had never seen a creature in such a terrible state. They called him Poleng. He came limping into a village one afternoon, slow and tired. His body was stiff …

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He Thought They’d Save Him. But They Didn’t. The puppy ran from the playground, small legs shaking, ears pinned back. He had been left there—alone and confused—by the only people he thought might help him. At first, he thought he was lucky. A group of kids had found him, and for a moment, his tail wagged with hope. But the joy was shortlived.  The children didn’t see a scared, hungry pup. They saw a toy. Something to chase, to poke, to toss around. He whimpered, but no one noticed. Until one girl did. She ran to get her mother. By the time they returned, the puppy was curled into a ball, trembling. His eyes were too big for his face, and he didn’t lift his head when they approached. But he didn’t run either. Maybe he was too tired. Or maybe, deep down, he knew this time might be different. They scooped him up gently. He didn’t resist. Back at home, a small bowl of food calmed his shaking. He was just two months old. Tiny. Fragile. His ribs showed under a thin layer of fur, and ticks clung to his skin like shadows. Bath time came next. The woman expected a fight, but he stood still in the warm water. Quiet. As if the worst had already passed. She had to scrub him twice to get the grime off. He didn’t flinch. But the dryer terrified him. The moment the motor started, he bolted. He huddled in a corner, shaking all over again. His eyes were wide, his breath quick. So they turned it off and brought out a fan instead. Slowly, the room grew quiet again. He sat there, wet and still, his little face turned down. He didn’t bark. He didn’t whine. He just sat. As if waiting for something worse. Eventually, he fell asleep, curled up around a small toy. A stuffed animal. He hugged it close the way a child would cling to a parent. The woman watched him sleep, heart aching. “He should be curled up with his mother,” she whispered. The next morning, he woke up and sniffed around. A toy caught his eye. Then another. He batted them with a paw, then looked up as if asking permission. When Lola trotted in—a gentle, older dog—his tail twitched. She sniffed him once and nudged his ear. From that moment on, he followed her everywhere. Lola had seen a lot in her years. She moved slower than she used to. But she took to the puppy right away, nudging him when he was shy, licking his ears when he cried, sharing her toys without a fuss. They named him Beethoven. In those first few days, Beethoven didn’t bark. But slowly, he started to explore. He sniffed every corner of the house. He wobbled after Lola in the garden. He stopped hiding under chairs. And he started forgetting. That’s the thing about puppies—they heal fast. Maybe not on the outside, but in their hearts. They forgive with all their might. And that makes it easier for the rest of us to heal, too. Still, the woman wanted answers. She went back to the playground. She found security cameras. She asked questions. And eventually, the truth came out. The puppy had been left there by a young girl. She’d meant well, at first. She said everyone was getting pets these days, and it just felt like the thing to do. But caring for another life had been harder than she imagined. After only a week, she gave up. That’s how fate works sometimes. It takes something broken and hands it to someone ready to heal. The woman didn’t care about blame. What mattered now was love. Food. Safety. Laughter. And Beethoven had all three. Lola took her role seriously. She let him nap on her belly. She growled gently when he wandered too far. At night, he nestled beside her like a baby under a blanket. And Beethoven began to thrive. On Day 40, something special happened. A local school reached out. They were teaching a lesson called “Love and Compassion.” They asked if the woman could bring a dog. She brought Beethoven. He sat in the backseat quietly, watching the trees fly past the window. His nose twitched. His ears perked at every sound. At the school, dozens of small faces gathered around him. This time, it was different. The children didn’t pull or poke. They offered snacks. They whispered kind words. One boy gently patted Beethoven’s head and said, “You’re brave.” And Beethoven believed him. He didn’t tremble. He didn’t hide. He stood tall—well, as tall as a two-month-old pup can—and took it all in. The hands. The giggles. The love. That day changed something in him. Back at home, he raced to find Lola. He pounced on her tail, tugged at her ear, then flopped beside her with a happy sigh. He didn’t know how to say it, but she understood: “I met good kids today.” By Day 60, Beethoven was growing fast. The vet visit was coming, and he needed his shots. He sat in the car seat, quiet and curious. He watched cars, people, trees. The world was wide and full of smells. At the clinic, he didn’t resist. He trembled, yes. He even cried a little when the needle came. But he didn’t run. He didn’t fight. The nurse gave him a treat, and his tail wagged wildly. Just like that, the pain was gone. Everyone in the room laughed. He was still innocent enough to forget hurt when kindness followed. That’s the magic of puppies. And that’s why everyone said the woman was lucky. “You’ve got a good boy,” the vet smiled. She just nodded. They didn’t know the whole truth. She hadn’t saved Beethoven. He’d saved her, too. The house was warmer now. The days were livelier. Lola had a spark back in her eyes. And the woman, well—she smiled more. Later that week, Beethoven had his first outing to a park. Dogs gathered. They sniffed. They barked. But Beethoven stuck close to Lola. He followed her lead, copying her every move. …

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He Collapsed in the Heat. Then Something in His Eyes Changed. The dog was lying on the concrete, his chest rising in short, shallow breaths. His ribs showed. The pavement burned. His tongue, cracked and dry, barely moved. And when he finally opened his eyes, they held something—something old, like grief. They called him Logan. …

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He Lay Beside the Garden Chain, Waiting for a Glance That Never Came He still looked toward the door, even when no one called him.Even when the man who once loved him walked away without a word. He had been there a long time—tethered in the garden, his body wasting and his eyes full of …

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We found him curled in a ditch, eyes half-shut, his breathing barely there.At first, we thought he was gone. But then he blinked. Slowly. And that was enough. It was a regular call, like any other. A report of a dog in distress. We’d done this before—sometimes it’s a false alarm. But that day, what …

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The dog was lying in a gutter, barely breathing, his body broken and still. His eyes, swollen and desperate, met mine—and I swear he spoke to me. It happened in a dusty corner of a loud, busy town south of Tijuana. I’d been called by a volunteer who said she couldn’t leave the scene alone. …

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The call came in like a whisper of hope—a guard dog, neglected and suffering, needed help. Rescuers, their hearts heavy with anticipation, drove through dusty backroads to a place where love had long been forgotten. What they found was heartbreaking: a mother dog, her coat unkempt, gently tethered outside an old doghouse, her gaze full …

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Lola’s story starts with a sting that cuts deep—imagine a pup, tail wagging with hope, only to be handed back to the shelter not once, but twice, in just seven short months. The sight of her drooping ears and those soulful, disappointed eyes could unravel even the toughest heart. Each return left an ache in …

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In the annals of military history, few stories are as heartwarming and unique as that of Sergeant Stubby, an unassuming stray dog who became America’s first and most decorated war dog of World War I. This is the tale of how a dog with no pedigree became a national hero, his story etched forever in …

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