Fhilcar Faunillani 
The kitten’s tiny paws pressed against the rusted car door. Her mother’s warmth was gone. Patchwork, barely a month old, curled up in the back of an abandoned sedan, her soft mews lost in the highway’s hum. Quilt, her mother, paced the used car lot, eyes sharp, searching for safety. The employees, kind but helpless, …
The rain tapped softly on the pavement. A tiny kitten, fur dappled with dirt, crouched under a parked car. Her eyes, wide and amber, followed the street’s blur of feet and tires. She was alone, but not entirely. Her mother, a lean tabby, had taught her to wait, to watch, to survive. They lived on …
The kitten crouched low, her gray fur matted with alley dust. Hunger gnawed, sharp and familiar. She nosed through a torn garbage bag, chasing a faint whiff of something edible. The street was cold, the city loud. Tibby, they’d later call her, didn’t know warmth yet. She only knew survival. A volunteer watched from a …
Her eyes caught the morning light, soft and gold, staring through the back door. Mama Latke pressed her nose against the glass, waiting, hopeful, her tail still. The neighbor, a woman with graying hair and a gentle voice, knelt down. She’d seen the cat before, thin but unafraid, weaving between her ankles. “Hi, Mama,” she …
The wind cut sharp across the alley, and the kittens shivered under a rusted car. Their tiny bodies pressed close, seeking warmth from their feral mother’s thin frame. She was all they had. A neighbor left scraps of food, but it wasn’t enough. The cold bit harder each night. Ryme, a gray tabby with eyes …
She lay crumpled on the street, her body heavy with exhaustion. Her shallow breaths barely stirred the dust beneath her. A stranger knelt beside her, hands gentle, voice soft. The dog, too weak to lift her head, let out a faint whimper. Her eyes, clouded with fear, flickered with something else—hope, maybe, or just the …
Her eyes caught the streetlight’s glow. Mila sat, tail curled, watching the world pass. She perched on a trash can, fur dusted with city grime. Her kittens hid somewhere in the shadows. She didn’t move when I walked by, just blinked slowly, like she knew me. I’d seen her before, weaving through the alley, her …
The dog lay still, his thin frame trembling in the dirt. His eyes, dull with pain, met mine, and I felt a pang deep in my chest. He was small, barely ten kilos, his fur matted with grime and dried blood. Three legs were gone. The fourth hung by a thread of ruined tissue, bone …
The sun burned low over the field, and she lay there, curled around her puppies. Her eyes, tired but fierce, watched the horizon for danger. The children saw her first. They whispered about a ghost dog, slipping through tall grass, vanishing before anyone could follow. She was a shadow, they said, with babies hidden somewhere …
The boy’s boots crunched on the gravel path. A small dog followed, its steps uneven, hesitant. His eye was swollen, clouded, bulging like a forgotten wound. The boy slowed, unsure, his heart catching. He tried to walk on, but the dog stayed close. Tail tucked, it stared up with a quiet, desperate hope. He stopped. …
The puppy lay in the ditch, trembling. His tiny legs, bound with tape, couldn’t move. Mud clung to his fur. His eyes, wide with fear, stared at nothing. Silence wrapped him like a shroud. A woman’s shadow fell across him. She stopped, her breath catching. She knelt, her hands shaking as she dialed for help. …
The puppy’s cries were soft, almost lost in the winter wind. They carried across the empty veranda, trembling with cold and hunger. Bonggu, barely nine months old, lay chained to a post. His fur was matted, his body thin, his eyes wide with quiet sorrow. The gate to the yard was locked tight, the house …
The wind howled through the ditch. A mother dog, thin and trembling, curled tightly around her newborns. Her eyes, wide with hunger, watched the road. She pressed her pups closer, shielding them from the cold. Their tiny bodies squirmed, seeking warmth she barely had to give. I knelt beside the ditch. The mother’s tail flicked, …
The kitten’s eyes were sealed shut. He stumbled on the Brooklyn sidewalk, small and shivering. His tabby fur was matted, his breath quick and shallow. Hunger clung to him like damp cold. A sister trailed close, her own eyes sharp, watching over him. Central Brooklyn hummed around them—cars, voices, footsteps—but these two were invisible. Just …
The old man sat on his porch, coffee cooling in his hands. A thin cat watched him from the shadows. It was early, the kind of morning where the air feels heavy with dew. The cat’s eyes, wide and wary, caught the light. He wore a purple collar, frayed at the edges, like a forgotten …