Fhilcar Faunillani 
The mother dog lay on the cracked asphalt, her three pups curled against her. Their tiny bodies shivered, though the sun was high. She didn’t move when I approached, just lifted her head, her eyes heavy with something like trust, but worn thin. The parking lot was empty except for them. A week ago, a …
The dog stood by the roadside, trembling. His eyes followed each car, hoping for his owner. His fur was thin, patchy in places. A tumor bulged under his jaw, heavy and sore. He didn’t know why he was alone. He just waited. Every morning, every evening, he stood there. Cars passed. None stopped. His legs …
The dog shivered in the corner. His chain clinked against the cold ground. General’s eyes were dull, like old glass. They held no hope. His fur, once thick and proud, clung in patches to his bony frame. The collar around his neck had bitten deep, carving a raw, swollen wound. He was too weak to …
The phone rang, and her voice broke through tears. My niece, barely ten, found a puppy in a box. It was after school, the sun low over the neighborhood. She saw the cardboard by the curb, tattered and damp. Inside, a puppy whimpered, its tiny body curled tight. She thought it was hungry. She scooped …
The dog moved like a broken machine. His head tilted sharp to one side, neck bent unnatural. One front leg twisted left, the other right, scraping the cracked pavement of Colón’s streets. He didn’t whimper. He just kept going. Each step was a quiet fight against a body that betrayed him. The sun burned high. …
The dog lay in the grass, his body a map of pain. His cries pierced the evening air. I walked with my son through the woods at the edge of town. The air was cool, the kind that settles on your skin after a long day. My boy needed a moment, so we stopped by …
The dog staggered along the empty street. Her legs trembled, barely holding her weight. Cars sped by, their tires humming on the asphalt. No one stopped. No one looked. Her fur was matted, patched with scars. A deep wound gaped across her face. She was thin—too thin. Her ribs pressed against her skin like branches …
The dog stood at the edge of the yard, her chain taut. Her bark was faint, almost a whisper. She saw us and her eyes widened. She lunged forward, the chain yanking her back. Her fur was matted, her ribs sharp beneath her skin. She hadn’t eaten in days. The collar dug into her neck, …
The gate creaked at 1:15 a.m. A man stood there, his shadow sharp under the shelter’s dim light.He held a puppy, small and trembling, and struck it hard, his curses low and bitter. The camera caught it all. His quick glance around, checking for eyes in the dark.He left the pup crumpled by the gate, …
The old dog lay in the dirt, ribs sharp against her skin. Her eyes, clouded but bright, watched the world with quiet hope. She was called Rosie. The man who owned her said she was fifteen. Too old, he said. Useless. He called me one gray morning, his voice flat. “Take the dog,” he said. …
The puppy lay flat in the dust, his body stiff as a board. His weak cries pierced the empty air, pulling at something deep in the chest. He was alone in the wasteland, a patch of cracked earth where nothing grew. His name was Enzo, though we learned that later. His eyes, wide and wet, …
She stood alone on the cracked earth, her eyes searching. The construction site was silent now. Once, she had been their guard dog, fierce and loyal, her barks echoing through the night. Now, the workers were gone, the building finished, and she was left behind, pregnant and abandoned. Her name was never spoken. They called …
The rain fell hard on Logan’s broken body. He lay by the road, shivering, crying out in pain. His whimpers cut through the storm. No one stopped. Cars sped by, their tires spraying water. Passersby glanced, then turned away. Logan’s eyes, wide with fear, begged for help. He was a small dog, barely a year …
The man walked through the park. Something caught his eye—a sack, discarded, moving faintly. He froze. The sack twitched again, a small, desperate stir. He knelt, heart pounding, and opened it. Inside was a dog, curled tight, a heap of bones and scars. Her body was wasted, ribs jutting like cruel ridges under thin skin. …
The puppy lay in a trash bag, discarded like waste. His tiny body shivered, barely alive. The umbilical cord still clung to him, a cruel reminder of his newborn state. His leg was twisted, shattered beyond repair. The bone gleamed white through torn skin, already dead. Someone had beaten him, abandoned him, left him to …