Fhilcar Faunillani 
The cat’s eyes wouldn’t open. He followed me down the street, small paws padding softly, trusting. His gray fur was matted, his steps unsure. I stopped, knelt, and whispered he’d be safe if he rested now. He lay down, right there, on the cracked sidewalk. His blind trust pierced me, a stranger who’d never earned …
The cat’s cry was soft, almost lost in the evening’s hum. I stopped, heart heavy, searching. It lay in the grass, small and trembling. Its front legs bent unnaturally, like snapped twigs. The wails came again, faint but piercing, each one a plea for someone to care. I knelt beside it. Its fur was thin, …
The rain had stopped, but the ground was still wet. Two kittens lay motionless beside a dumpster, their tiny bodies curled against the cold. Their fur was matted, streaked with mud. The orange one twitched when I called out softly. A spark of life flickered in its eyes. I knelt closer, my breath catching as …
The cat lay in the ditch, her eyes wide with fear. Her hindquarters bled, raw and torn. Joe stopped walking. His brother froze beside him. The autumn air hung still, heavy with the scent of damp leaves. The cat’s low growl cut through the silence. She dragged her broken body toward a tangle of roots. …
The kitten shivered beside the dumpster, small and alone. Its fur was matted, its eyes wide with hunger. I stood there, work-weary, scanning the alley for a mother cat that wasn’t there. The evening was cold, the kind that settles into your bones. The kitten mewed, a faint sound, like a whisper you almost miss. …
The dog lay still on the empty lot, her eyes wide with quiet despair. Flies hovered close, drawn to the scent of neglect that clung to her thin frame. We lifted her carefully, her body light as a shadow. Those eyes stayed with me, a silent plea that echoed long after. At the vet’s office, …
She walked with her son that quiet afternoon. Near the bushes, a small shape lay still, as if waiting for someone to notice. Her heart paused. In that moment, a bond began to form, unspoken and deep. The woman knelt down. The little puppy looked up with eyes that held stories of quiet endurance. He …
The street was cold, gray, and empty. A dog lay there, barely a shadow of life. Magnus was a whisper of himself, bones sharp beneath pink, hairless skin. His eyes, dull and sunken, held no fight. At 28 pounds, he was a ghost, abandoned, forgotten. The crate they carried him in rattled softly. He didn’t …
Her paws scraped the porch, trembling. She collapsed there, eyes dull, body frail, whispering for help. No one knew where she came from. A gray shadow of a dog, ribs sharp under patchy fur, she stumbled into the house like it was her last hope. Her name, we’d learn, was Dominique. She carried tumors like …
The crate sat in the corner, rusted and cold. Lexi lay inside, barely breathing. Her eyes were empty, like windows to a house long abandoned. She weighed eight pounds, her ribs sharp under matted fur. A low fever burned through her, stealing what little strength she had left. I knelt beside her, my hands trembling …
The old dog lay trembling on the cracked concrete. His eyes, cloudy and tired, held a story no one wanted to hear. He was tied to a post outside a sagging house. The chain was short, rusted, and heavy. It bit into his thin neck. Across the street, neighbors passed by, their glances quick, their …
The old dog lay in the dirt, his eyes clouded and useless. Pain clung to him like damp fur. His name was Hachiko, like the loyal dog from stories whispered over coffee. But this Hachiko knew betrayal. His owner left him, sick and blind, alone in a world gone dark. A young girl found him, …
The dog limped through the dust, his eyes dull with hunger. Each step stirred a quiet ache. His fur was gone, stolen by mange, leaving raw patches that stung in the wind. He was a ghost, unseen by the village. Locals shooed him from their fields, their voices sharp, their hands quick with stones. He …
The old dog lay still on the cold shelter floor. His eyes, cloudy with age, held a faint flicker of hope. Grisha’s fur was matted, his body thin. The shelter was all he’d known for years. Once, he had a family. They left him behind. The memory of their voices faded long ago. Now, fever …
The wind howled at minus sixteen. Busya curled tight around her four newborn pups. Their small bodies shivered on the concrete. The gas station’s neon lights flickered above. Her friend, a sturdy black dog, stood guard. His eyes scanned the shadows. He was a protector, loyal, his fur matted from years of watching over this …