He didn’t make a sound. No whining, no barking, not even a sigh. He just sat pressed against the cold wall, as if he wanted to become a part of it, to disappear, to dissolve, so that no one would see. In front of him lay a rusty wire that had turned into a collar, and an empty, peeling saucepan that had probably once served as his bowl. This little bulldog looked like he had long since resigned himself to the fact that his life had no meaning. His skin was eaten away by disease, his eyes were inflamed, his fur was sticking out in clumps from his wounds. But that wasn’t the worst thing. The worst thing was in his gaze. Eyes that no longer held expectation. No faith. Not even fear. Only emptiness. I stopped, unable to take a step. My chest was so tight that it was hard to breathe.
«Oh, my God…» I blurted out. «Who did this to you?»
The dog didn’t move. I just slowly raised my gaze and looked straight into his eyes. At that moment, something inside me turned over. Not pity, no. It was something much deeper. As if he was trying to say: “Have you come? Have you really come?”
“Hey, kid…” I squatted down. “You won’t have to endure this anymore.”
I extended my hand slowly and carefully. He flinched, but he didn’t bare his teeth or growl. He just looked. When my fingers touched his head, I felt how hard he was shaking. His body was thin, like just bones.
“Quiet, quiet… It’s all over.”
The neighbor who showed me this basement just shrugged:
“They kept him here… I don’t know why. They said he was there to guard. But what kind of guard would he be? He’s completely sick.”
I clenched my teeth. For someone, he’s “sick,” “unnecessary.” And for me, he was a little soul who was simply unlucky enough to meet not people, but demons in human form. I cut the wire. It dug into his neck so deeply that it left a bloody mark. He didn’t even squeal. He just blinked.
“That’s it, baby. We’re leaving here.”
I picked him up. He was light as a puppy, although his wrinkled face and the look of an adult dog gave away his age. In the car, he lay on my lap, his nose buried in the sleeve of my jacket, and for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to relax.
“What should I call you, huh?” I said, looking at him. “You need a name. You didn’t have a name, did you?”
He looked up and suddenly sighed quietly, barely audibly.
“Maybe… Felix?” I smiled. “Yes, Felix. It means ‘happy.’”
Felix closed his eyes. As if he agreed.
At the clinic, the doctors shook their heads:
— He has an advanced demodectic infection, anemia, exhaustion… But there is a chance. We will have to treat him for a long time, feed him on schedule, take care of him patiently.
I just nodded. A chance was all I needed.
Sometimes, at night, I looked at him when he was sleeping. Small, curled up, with bandaged paws and skin smeared with ointment. And every time I asked myself: “How much pain did he endure? How many times did he hope to be pulled out, but no one came? How many nights did he sit in the dark, tied to the wall, looking at an empty bowl?” And then a fire rose in his chest: “But now everything is different. Now he has me. And I will not let him go through hell again.”
Felix was afraid to leave his corner for a long time. Even at home, he chose dark places: under the table, behind the closet, near the door. I would sit next to him and sit silently for hours, so that he would understand that there was someone nearby who would not hurt him.
“Come on, Felix,” I would say softly. “Let’s go outside. There’s sun, there’s fresh air.”
At first he would take just one step, then two. And then he would come back immediately. But one day he suddenly stopped in the middle of the room, raised his head, and looked at the window where light was streaming in. I held my breath.
“Come on, baby…”
And he started walking. With small, trembling steps, but he did. Everything outside was new. The grass, the wind, the smells. He sniffed the ground for so long, as if he were seeing it for the first time. And I realized that perhaps this really was the first time he felt free.
“You know, Felix,” I said one evening as we sat together on the porch, “people are different. Some hurt, others save. But you should know one thing: you will never be alone again.
He looked at me with his big eyes and suddenly did something he had never done before — he gently laid his head on my lap. And at that moment I realized: he believed.
The weeks went by. His skin healed, his fur began to grow. His eyes stopped being empty. There was light in them. One day, a volunteer from the shelter came to visit us.
«You don’t recognize me!» she exclaimed. «Is this the same poor bulldog? Look at him!»
Felix came up to her himself, sniffed her hand and even wagged his tail. A small movement, but for him — a whole revolution.
Today, Felix is different. He likes to sleep on a soft pillow, play with a ball, meet me at the door. Sometimes he still shudders from sharp sounds — the memory of the past is alive. But now there are always arms nearby that will hug, and a voice that will say:
«Everything is fine, Felix. You’re home.
➕
