The sun was shining directly into my eyes that day, and the asphalt beneath my feet felt scorching. People passed by, carrying bags of groceries, their faces filled with haste and familiar fatigue. I walked on, lost in my own thoughts, until my gaze caught on a rough patch ahead. At first, I thought it was a piece of tarpaulin or a discarded sack. But sacks don’t breathe like that.
He lay on his side, his emaciated paws stretched out, as if he weren’t their master. The bones showed through the taut skin so clearly that you could count every rib. His fur had fallen off in clumps, leaving gray, sunburned patches of skin. His head rested on the ground, and only his eyes slowly turned toward me. There was no plea in those eyes. There was no fear either. Only a quiet, tired acceptance—like that of those who have already made their choice and stopped fighting.
«Oh, my God…» the words escaped his lips.
I sat down next to him. The smell was heavy—a mixture of dust, rot, and lingering hunger. He didn’t move away, didn’t raise his head. He only flicked the tip of his tail slightly, as if checking to see if he could still do it. «Hey… can you hear me?» I asked quietly.
His eyes lingered on mine for a couple of seconds, then slowly closed. It wasn’t a sleepy lid closure, but a gesture: «If you want, do something; if not, I understand.» I turned around and saw a man in a janitor’s uniform standing on the corner.
«Tell me… has he been lying here long?» I asked.
He shrugged.
«For about three days now. No one cares. We think he’s a goner.» «Why don’t we take him to a shelter?»
«Our shelters are overcrowded,» he said, as if making excuses, «and who’s going to take him in like this?» He’s, look, everything…
I didn’t listen to the end. I already understood that leaving him here would be like signing his d.e αth warrant.
«Well, my friend…» I gently touched his withers. My fingers felt dry, hot skin, almost hairless. He flinched, but didn’t move away.
«I won’t abandon you,» I said, surprised at how firmly I sounded.
Taking a bottle of water from my bag, I wet my palms and carefully brought it to his lips. He didn’t drink. Then I lightly touched his nose with the water. He licked his lips, and for the first time, I saw something resembling life flicker in his eyes.
He took a sip. Then another. And another. But he didn’t react to the food—the piece of bread I pulled out. His strength had already left him too far.
I called a taxi, not thinking about what the driver would say. Luckily, a gentle-faced man of about forty came along. He opened the trunk and helped lift the dog, though he was as light as an empty sack.
«Alive?» he asked. «For now, yes,» I replied. «But if we don’t hurry, it might be ‘no.'»
On the way, he lay with his head in my lap, and sometimes I felt a slight tremor—from fear or p.a Ìn, I don’t know.
At the clinic, the veterinarian frowned when he saw him.
«Severe exhaustion, dehydration, extensive skin problems, possibly internal infections,» he listed. «Honestly? The chances are slim.»
«I don’t care how many chances,» I interrupted. «If there’s even one, do everything.»The doctor looked at me intently, then nodded.
«Okay. But you’ll have to stay in the hospital. Every hour counts.» I left the clinic that evening feeling like I’d left a piece of myself there. I kept thinking: what if I’m too late? What if he’s there now, on that cold table, slowly… I pushed the thoughts away, but they kept coming back.
The next day, I visited him in the morning. He was lying on a blanket, hooked up to an IV. The doctor said he’d survived the night, and that was a minor miracle.
«What’s his name?» the nurse asked. I hesitated. He didn’t have one. And then I said the first thing that came to mind:
«Chance.»
«Why?»
«Because it’s all we have.»
The days merged into a series of visits. I brought him broth, chicken breast, warm water. Sometimes he ate, sometimes not. Sometimes, when I sat next to him, he’d open his eyes and rest his head on my palm. «Live, Chance,» I’d tell him. «I promise everything will be different.»
Sometimes it seemed he understood. His eyes would soften slightly, and his tail would move ever so slightly.
A week later, he was able to stand up on his front paws. Two weeks later, he could take a couple of steps. These steps were uneven, shaky, but they were there. And I rejoiced at them as if he’d run a marathon.
«Good job, boy,» I smiled. «We’ll be running soon.»
He didn’t seem to believe in running, but he believed in me.
A month later, we walked outside. He stopped, took a breath, raised his head to the sun, and… froze. I realized that for him, this moment was like his first sip of water on the day we met. Freedom smelled of wind and grass.
Now he lives with me. The s.c αrs on his body will remain forever, but they’re not about p.a Ín. They’re about how even when you’re lying on the ground, staring into space, there’s still a chance. If someone stops in time.
Sometimes, when we walk down the street, I catch people’s eyes, and it seems they see a story in us. A story about how miracles can be quiet. They come without fanfare, simply in the form of an outstretched hand, a bowl of water, and the words, «I won’t abandon you.»
Chance often sleeps with his head in my lap. And every time I think: maybe on that first day, he really did choose to leave… but I managed to say «but.» And this “but” became his new life.
➕
