Fhilcar Faunillani 
The black dog lay still, his nose twitching toward an empty bowl. His eyes, clouded and sightless, searched for something he’d never find. Bela, the brown dog, nudged him gently. Her own eyes, dim with age, watched him with a quiet knowing. She shuffled across the oil-slicked parking lot, her thin legs trembling, and dropped …
The puppy sat alone by the roadside, shivering in the dusk. His small body hunched over a pile of trash, searching for scraps. Cars roared past, their lights cutting through the gray. He didn’t flinch. He just kept digging, his tiny paws sifting through the mess. I stopped the car. My heart caught in my …
Her eyes caught the morning light, wide and searching. A cat, heavy with unborn kittens, lingered at the shop’s door. She didn’t meow. She didn’t need to. Her slow steps along the entrance spoke of a need too deep for sound. I watched her, a stranger carrying life, looking for a place to rest. My …
The kitten was so small it fit in her palm. Its eyes were still sealed shut, its fur stiff with neglect. She found the litter in the bushes behind the office. The mother cat, a familiar stray she’d fed for months, had carried her newborns there, one by one. The young woman didn’t touch them …
The bicycle wheels hummed softly. Something stirred on the cracked asphalt ahead. Two kittens, smaller than mice, crouched in the dusk. One sprawled on the road, fearless in its tiny defiance. The other huddled beneath a utility pole, eyes wide, trembling. I stopped, my shadow falling over them. Their mews were faint, like whispers from …
The cat’s eyes caught the morning light, wide and trembling under the car. She tried to answer my call, her voice a faint, broken mew. Her name wasn’t yet Xiao Bi Ga. She was just a shadow, curled tight against the tire, her small body shivering. Her paw, raw and open, glistened in the sun. …
The kitten’s eyes were sealed shut, tiny and fragile in my palm. I held her, trembling, afraid she wouldn’t last. Her fur was a faint gray, barely there, like dust on a forgotten shelf. I warmed a bottle of milk, my hands clumsy, unsure. She drank, her small mouth searching, and I felt her heartbeat …
The cat limped alone in the dusk, her bones sharp under thin fur. I stopped, heart heavy, watching her wobble. She was small, too light for an adult, her blue eyes dull and sticky. Each step seemed to cost her something precious. I knelt on the cold pavement, her faint mew barely reaching me. She …
The old cat sat under the tree, his front paws gone. His eyes held a quiet story. The village was small, tucked against a mountain. Autumn leaves fell, and the air smelled of earth. Kong Kong, the cat, waited each day at the same spot. His gray fur was thin, his body frail. He didn’t …
The old wooden porch creaked under my weight. A stray cat, thin and gray, stared up at me, her eyes like small, tired moons. She’d been coming for a week now. I’d left scraps of chicken, a bowl of water. She ate quickly, always glancing over her shoulder. Her fur was matted, her steps careful. …
The rain fell softly, tapping the pavement beneath the apartment stairs. A cat, gray and trembling, curled tight, her eyes wide with the pain of her first labor. She was alone, or so she thought. I stood a few steps away, my coat damp, watching her struggle. Her breaths came fast, shallow, like she was …
The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. Frankie lay still, his breaths shallow, each one a small fight against the pain that clung to him like damp earth. His fur, once soft and golden, was matted with dirt and blood. His eyes, hollowed by hurt, stared at nothing. A neighbor passed …
The cemetery was quiet, heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. A small cry broke the stillness, sharp and trembling, like a heart cracking open. It came from a puppy, barely bigger than a hand, curled in the grass between weathered headstones. Her fur was matted, her eyes wet with something more than tears. She …
The old dog sat by the roadside, his eyes fixed on the empty street. Rain fell, but he didn’t move. His fur, patchy and thin, clung to his bones, and his few remaining teeth ached with every breath. He was waiting. Always waiting. For someone who never came. A man lived nearby, in a small …
The old house stood empty, its windows dark. A mother dog lay in the dust, her pups beside her. Her eyes caught the morning light, tired but fierce. She’d been waiting, guarding, hoping for someone to come. Three pups curled close, their bellies swollen, their fur patchy. They were hungry, always hungry. She licked their …