Fhilcar Faunillani 
Lilax’s eyes followed him. She stood still, her tail low, watching her owner disappear into the house. Her world was the yard, the familiar dirt beneath her paws. She didn’t want to leave. But the man who fed her, who once scratched her ears, walked away without a word. The gate creaked shut. Lilax whimpered, …
The street hummed with footsteps. A dog dragged her broken body, eyes begging for mercy. Her hind legs scraped the asphalt. She was thin, ribs sharp under matted fur. Plastic bags came up when she retched, her hunger a quiet scream. Passersby hurried on, heads turned away. She crawled to each one, hopeful, then sank …
The cat’s eyes, one yellow, one blue, stared up from the cold pavement. He lay still, trembling, his fur matted with dirt and blood. The man stopped, his son’s small hand in his. It was early, the air sharp with morning chill. The kindergarten gate clanged shut behind them. The cat didn’t move, but his …
Her eyes caught the light first. One blue, one green, they shimmered like forgotten jewels. She stood at my doorstep, thin and silent, her fur tangled but proud. I knelt, offering a slice of sausage. She sniffed, turned her head, and walked away. The next day, she returned. I tried ham sausage this time. Her …
The kitten lay curled in the dirt, barely bigger than a hand. Its umbilical cord dangled, still fresh, a fragile thread tying it to a mother who was gone. The roadside was quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with absence. Dust settled on the kitten’s damp fur. It didn’t cry, didn’t move, just waited …
The kitten lay stiff on the doorstep, lips black, breath gone. We knelt, hearts sinking, pressing tiny ribs. His fur was cold, matted with morning dew. My hands trembled, pushing gently, willing life back. The yard was silent, just the crunch of gravel under our knees. We didn’t speak. We pressed. We hoped. An hour …
The kitten’s eyes were wide, like tiny moons, trembling on the cold pavement. I knelt, heart heavy, and scooped him into my arms. He was small, orange fur matted, a stray I found walking home from work. I named him Little Orange. My two cats, Xixi and Haha, waited at home, unaware their world was …
The tire was cold, its rubber cracked from years in the sun. A faint meow trembled from within. I stopped my car, heart caught by that small, hoarse sound. Somewhere in the wheel well, a kitten hid. I knelt by the curb, peering into the dark. The meow came again, weaker now, like a whisper …
The old dog trembled in the corner. His eyes, wide and untrusting, stared at the shelter’s cold floor. Flip was his name, though he barely knew it, a name given by a volunteer who saw something worth saving. He’d come from a place of too many dogs, too little care. A hoarding house, they called …
The phone call came late, after dusk. A shelter worker’s voice trembled, describing a dog named Arrow. His face was broken, they said, his jawbone exposed and rotting. The Weight of Silence Arrow lay still in the shelter’s exam room. His eyes, soft and brown, held no blame. The vet’s hands moved gently, tracing the …
The old dog lay by the railroad tracks, her eyes searching the empty distance. She was waiting, though no one came. Her body was frail, trembling under the weight of hunger and a swollen mass on her neck. The tracks stretched endlessly, cold and hard beneath her. She tried to stand, but her hind legs …
The dog limped across the highway, her fur matted, her eyes dull. Cars honked, tires screeched, but she kept moving, head low, as if she’d forgotten how to hope. A woman stepped into the road. She raised her hand, stopping traffic. Horns blared, but she didn’t flinch. She knelt beside the dog, her voice soft, …
The box was small. It had once held oranges. Now it held something alive, barely. The kitten didn’t cry. That was the first strange thing. Most young ones cry when they’re scared. When they’re cold. When they’re in pain. But this one just lay there, quiet. His fur was thin, patchy in places. His eyes …
Her cries were soft. Almost like a whisper. They came from a patch of dry dirt, far from any house, any help. A place where nothing much grows and few things pass. She didn’t move. Just crouched low. As if she had forgotten what legs were for. She was so small. Not even the size …
The dog’s eyes held a quiet ache. She lay on the sidewalk, tethered to a post. Her body sagged, thin and worn, as if the weight of loss pressed her down. Milk dripped from her, pooling on the cold concrete. She had just given birth, the subtitles said. Her puppies were gone, taken or lost, …