I saw a dog whose word had been stolen,
a ribbon black—like a night without stars;
lips tied, breath pounding and in the eyes—a question: «Why are you so sleepy?»
a drop—warm, salty—on the fur,
like the only tongue that remained;
if the world does not respond with honor,
let at least the rain sort it out.
«I believed,» the silent gaze whispers, »
that a palm is not p.a ìn, but a home;
and that loyalty is not a w.h ìp, not t.o ŕment,
but a quiet blanket and tea mixed with sleep.»
Someone tied my mouth to make it quieter,
so that I would not call out to the one who abandoned me;
but even so—won’t you hear?
hearts hear through any stripes. If you can, come without fear,
give me a name, take the darkness;
and when the slushy ribbons disappear,
the two of us will return to a simple «waiting.»
I wasn’t looking for this meeting. It was an ordinary evening, the city was covered in puddles, and all I needed to do was pick up a package and catch the last tram home. Around the corner near the auto repair shop, I heard a sound that at first I thought was the creaking of a chain: muffled, ragged breathing, as if someone was trying to call for help through a cotton blanket. I looked back and saw him. The brown dog was sitting with his muzzle buried in my shoulder, and something black was tightly clamped over his mouth. He was breathing through his mouth because he couldn’t help it, and tears were streaming from his eyes—real tears, not metaphors. He didn’t growl, didn’t bark, didn’t beg—he was simply living with the last of his strength. And there was so much pleading in that «just living» that I felt ashamed of all the times I’d pretended not to notice. «Hey, man,» I crouched down, trying to keep my voice below the wind. «I see. I’m here.»
He flinched—not from a.n ĝer, but from the desire to hide the p.a ìn, but there was nowhere to hide it. Several layers of black electrical tape ran around his muzzle, digging into the skin at his cheeks, and every attempt to open his mouth resulted in a dull, drawn-out, silent scream. I took out my phone and dialed the volunteer number with trembling fingers. A calm female voice said on the other end:
«Don’t take it off yourself if the tape’s cut in. Take him to the clinic, we’ll be there. And… thanks for not passing by.»
While I was looking for a taxi, a man in a vest approached us.
«Don’t touch him,» he waved him off. «He’s d.a חgerous.» Those bite later. They probably got him in trouble for a reason.
«For what ‘reason’?» I asked, trying to keep my voice even. «For living?»
«Well, well…» he muttered and moved on.
The dog looked at me straight on, without reproach. I took off my scarf, wrapped it around his neck to keep him warm, and whispered:
«Be patient. Five minutes, and we’ll be gone. You’re not an e.n ℮my. And not a thing.»
The taxi driver turned out to be one of those people who doesn’t ask unnecessary questions. He opened the back door and said:
«Make something up. We’ll figure out the rest.»
«Thank you,» I said, feeling a lump growing in my throat.
«He’ll be fine,» he waved it off. «It’s obvious he wants to live.»
They were waiting for us at the clinic. The doctor—slim-cheeked and attentive—just glanced at me and let out a restrained breath:
“They kept me like this for at least a few hours. The swelling is severe. You’ll need sedation.”
“Do whatever it takes,” I replied. “I’m here.”
While the assistants prepared the medications, I sat at the table and spoke to him in a low voice, as if telling him a bedtime story:
“I have a blanket at home; it smells of laundry detergent and sunshine. I don’t always have time for breakfast, but I always have time to pour water. Sometimes I can’t be brave, but today I’ll succeed. Do you hear? You will have a name. We will give back the voice to the one who stole it.”
He lay motionless, only the tip of his tail moving slightly—either from p.a ìn or because words can sometimes heal.
“The sedation has worn off,” the doctor said. “We’re c.u ŧting.”
I turned away for a second, but heard the tape snap under the scissors. Then a second layer. A third. Each click was like a g.u חs.h σt to the ceiling of darkness. Under the tape, the skin was t.o ŕn, wet, and clinging. The doctor silently cleaned it, applied ointment, and carefully secured it with a soft bandage.
«He’ll live,» she finally said. «But there will be marks. He needs antibiotics, swelling control, and nutrition—gentle, little by little, for now. And… he’s not aggressive. It’s obvious he’s been patient.»
«Can I sit with him?» I asked.
«We have to,» she corrected. «He needs to connect people with more than just p.a ìn.»
We sat until nightfall. He was still semi-sedated, occasionally trying to open his mouth—most likely to check if the t.o ŕture had returned—and each time, when he saw the tape was gone, he seemed strangely surprised, as if he didn’t believe in such simple miracles. Towards midnight, he did something that made me turn away to hide my t.e αrs: he licked my sleeve carefully, as if afraid of getting dirty. I thought he was trying to say, «I’ll remember.»
«What’s his name?» the nurse asked, entering the information into the chart.
I thought for a second and said, «Voice.» They gagged him, but we gave him back his Voice.
The next morning, Voice was able to drink. We held the bowl above him so he wouldn’t have to stretch. He drank slowly, so intently, as if every sip were a survival challenge. Then I gave him soft food—a teaspoon at a time—and for the first time I heard a sound that hadn’t been there the day before: a quiet, barely audible «mm,» like a child tasting jam. I laughed—too loudly—and immediately apologized.
«Sorry, my friend. I’m feeling awkwardly happy.» He looked as if he had forgiven me long before my mistake.
The first few days, we measured the time between painkillers. The doctor showed me how to clean the wound, how to check for swelling, how to read the warning signs. I studied harder than I’d ever studied at university. At night, the Voice would sometimes rise and look somewhere past me—to where my memory was trying to snap the tape back into place. Then I’d come up to him and say:
«That was. But that’s not now. Now—here. It’s quiet. Warm. Breathe.»
He breathed—at first short and fast, then deeper, more evenly. And I breathed with him, because nothing brings me back to life like a shared rhythm.
In the third week, we went out into a small courtyard behind the clinic. The Voice stopped at the threshold and sniffed. The wind smelled of gloves, wet earth, and… freedom—the kind that smells t.e ŕrible at first because you have to get used to it. He took a step, then another. The sun fell on his face, and I saw the s.c αrs. They were fresh, pink, but they no longer promised p.a ìn—they promised memory. Memory that, instead of stone, became an anchor.
«Let’s go,» I said. «We have a long list of things to do. We need to live.» His bark was strange at first—hoarse, muffled—more of a grunt than a voice. But he tried hard: he’d lift his tail, silently letting you know he missed you, that he was happy. Gradually, the hoarse wheeze gave way to a real sound, and one morning he opened his eyes, yawned, and said the most ordinary «woof.» We both flinched—I from surprise, he from the fact that the world hadn’t collapsed. We laughed, and a volunteer photographer said,
«I’ll write it down in my file: ‘Regained Voice.'»
«Definitely with a capital «V,» I replied.
I took Golos home for temporary care, and he stayed forever—because some «temporary» ones are just fake from the start. The first thing he did in my kitchen was circle the chair where my jacket hung, nuzzle it, and sit down next to it, as if to say, «If it’s your scent, then the house is yours, then it’s mine too.» That night, he fell asleep by the sofa, and I sat on the floor and stared at him for a long time—at this strange dog in my life, who suddenly turned out to be my best mirror.
«You understand,» I told him, «that we’ll have to tolerate people? They’ll ask why you have a s.c αr. They’ll be h.o ŕrified and sympathetic. We’ll simply answer, ‘We pulled through.'»
The voice yawned in response and fanned its tail—like a signature on a contract.
We went into the store cautiously—unfamiliar voices could be loud, their footsteps abrupt. One boy, seeing the s.c αr, asked, «Uncle, who gave him that?» «The one who didn’t know that silence isn’t education,» I said honestly. «But now he has another ‘who.'»
«Is that you?»
«And me. And the doctor. And the taxi driver. And the girl with the scissors. And everyone who didn’t pass by.»
«I won’t pass by either,» the boy said and stroked the Voice’s neck. He froze, then quietly nudged his hand with his nose.
There were setbacks. Once, when someone loudly ripped the electrical tape off a box in the yard, the Voice crouched down and shook, as if everything had come back to him. I sat down next to him and placed my hand on his c.h ℮st.
«Do you hear that? It’s just a sound. The tape is where it belongs: on the boxes. Not on you. Now we decide for ourselves where silence is and where voice is.»
He trembled for another minute, then took a deep breath and stood up. We moved on—each of us has our own sounds that we’ll have to relearn.
With each passing month, he became more and more the same dog someone had been before: gentle, funny, incredibly attentive. His tongue, previously constantly protruding due to swelling, had retreated back into place; his muzzle, though s.c αrred, began to express a variety of «I»s: «I want to go for a walk,» «I want to look out the window,» «I’m just here.» He learned the word «home»—and every time he heard it, he rejoiced, as if he were hearing his own name.
«Did he forgive me?» a nurse asked one day, dropping in to visit us.
«I don’t know,» I said honestly. «But he lives on. Sometimes that’s forgiveness.»
The voice came over, sat on her legs, rested its head on her lap, and sighed—quietly, confidently.
«I think I heard back,» she smiled.
I often ask myself what I would do if I saw this not for the first time, but for the hundredth time; would I lack the strength, patience, faith. The answer is always the same: every time is the first. P.a ìn has no chronology; it must be removed anew each time, like that tape. And each time, there will always be someone who asks, «What if he b.i ŧes?» I answer, as I did then: «The b.i ŧe of invisibility is more t.e ŕrible. When a day passes, and no one notices.» We make mistakes, of course; not all stories end well. But this one ended as it should have.
Now Voice is sleeping on the rug, snoring lightly, wiggling his paws in his sleep—probably chasing his first real ball. As I finish writing these lines, I think about how simple miracles are: a telephone, a taxi, scissors, warm water, a few honest hands, and one genuine tear on a dog’s cheek. We often look for big reasons to be kind, when small actions are enough. If one day you encounter a look that makes no sound, don’t be alarmed by the silence. It doesn’t mean «don’t touch.» It means «help me hear.»
«Hey, Voice,» I say to him when he wakes up and reaches out to me with a morning «woof.» «Let’s remind the world that ribbon is best used on boxes.»
He wags his tail, as if answering, «And that words are needed to love.»
And we go for a walk: he with a s.c αr, I with a new ability to listen. And this, it seems, is already enough for one evening not to be someone’s l.a ŝt.
➕
