He sat in the corner, staring at the wall, as if trying to become invisible. His paws were tucked under him, his body thin, with bald patches where fur should have been. Around his neck was a rough, thick rope.
He smelled of dampness, sickness, and fear. But most of all, loneliness.
I squatted a meter away from him, trying not to make any sudden movements.
«Hi, baby…» I said quietly.
He didn’t look up. Only his ears twitched, catching the sound of my voice.
I looked at him, and questions swirled in my head. How long had he been sitting like that? Days? Weeks? Months? Who had left him in this corner, tied to the rope that had become his home, his walks, and his right to life?
I imagined him as a puppy once upon a time. They probably put the rope on him «to keep him from running away.» But puppies grow, and the rope doesn’t. It cuts into his skin, causing constant p.a ìn. He may have even stopped barking so as not to anger his owner.
«You weren’t always like this, were you?» I whispered, though I knew there would be no answer.
In my imagination, he once lay on the rug, basking in the sun, greeting someone with a joyful squeal. But everything had changed. Love was gone. Patience was gone. And the rope remained.
I extended my hand—slowly, so he could see my every move. He flinched, but didn’t try to b.i ŧe.
«It’s okay… I won’t h.u ŕt you,» I said, more to myself than to him.
My fingers touched the rope. Rigid, saturated with dirt and the smell of mold. I felt swellings, scabs, and wo.u חds beneath it. He froze, as if trying to figure out: would this hu. ŕt or bring relief?
I picked up the scissors. He looked at them warily, but without panic. As if he knew it couldn’t get any worse. “Hang on, my friend… Now…”
The rope was thick and old, and it was hard to c. ∪t. When the last fiber gave way, the rope fell to the floor, and he sighed as if he could breathe deeply for the first time.
But freedom doesn’t always come instantly. He didn’t run, didn’t jump for joy. He simply sat, st.u חned by the fact that nothing was tugging at his neck anymore. The question in his eyes was: «Now what?»
«Now…» I sat down next to him, placing my hand on his shoulder. «Now we’ll start all over again.»
He was shaking. Not from the cold, but from uncertainty.
At home, I washed him, carefully cleaning every wo. ∪nd. He waited patiently, only whining quietly occasionally when the water hit the sores. The skin beneath his matted fur was infl. aḿed, exposed in places. I thought about how many months he’d lived in p.a ìn, and clenched my teeth to keep from cr. yìng.
The first few days, he ate little, as if afraid he’d run out of food. He slept a lot, but often woke up at the slightest sound. Every time I moved, his eyes followed me, as if he was still expecting a trick. One evening, he came to me himself. Slowly, hesitantly. He laid his head on my lap and just stood there, his eyes closed. It was like trust, growing from the ashes of fear.
«That’s it, my dear…» I whispered and stroked him. «No one will t.ì e you to a wall again.»
Weeks passed. His fur grew thicker, the w.o uחds healed. But the scar from the rope will remain on his neck forever—a reminder of what he’s been through. And perhaps a sign that even after the darkest night, morning can come.
This dog’s story isn’t about chance. It’s about how c.r ∪elty can be silent. It may not scream, h.i ṫ, or y.℮ ll. It can simply leave someone in a corner, tied to a wall, while life slowly e.b ƀs away.
But there’s another side—when someone comes along one day and says:
— Let’s go. You’re free to go.
➕
