He barked under the wail of sirens, his soul torn,
Through the screams, the roar, and the flames, through the ashes and the walls.
He believed we were near, that we would return again.
It wasn’t rage that trembled in his eyes—only love.
The chain grew i.n ŧo his skin, but his heart didn’t give in.
He lived in captivity at war, but his loyalty remained.
And each of his barks sounded like a vow:
«I’m waiting for you, Master. I’m still your dog.»
I remember him differently. Not like in that te.r ŕible photograph of him sitting hunched against the wall, wo.u חded, thin, almost hairless. I remember him as he was before : strong, handsome, with a shiny coat and eyes that shone with joy. He loved morning walks, when we’d walk through the park, and he’d run ahead, turning around every few seconds to make sure I was there. I remember him bringing me the ball, jumping into puddles, splashing water, and lying at my feet in the evening, sighing heavily, as if to say, «I’m home, and that’s all I need.» Sometimes I grumbled when he dragged dirt into the house or pulled me toward another dog on the street, but now I would give anything to hear that joyful bark of his again.
When the exp.l σsions started, everything changed. That night, we boarded the bus, the sirens howling so loudly they drowned out all thought. People screamed, pushed, children cried, adults prayed. And he barked. He rushed toward us, pulling the chain taut, howling . I held out my hands to him until the very end, but the doors closed, the engine started, and he was left behind. His eyes were full of despair, but even then, I saw in them not ha.t ŕed, but loyalty.
For many weeks, I lived with that look inside me. Every night I dreamed of him. I saw him sitting by the booth, his body growing thinner, the chain cu.t ŧing into his neck. I heard his inner voice: «Why did they leave without me? But no, he couldn’t abandon me. He’ll come back. I’ll wait. I’ll wait, even if I’m alone.»
I knew he thought so. Because he always waited for me. Even when I worked late, he’d sit by the door and listen to my footsteps. Even when I left for days, he wouldn’t eat until I returned. And I felt like he was waiting for me now.
When I returned to the ruined city, my heart was pounding. All around me were ruins, the smell of burning and ashes. I was afraid to see only the remains of a chain and emptiness. But he was there. Bent over like a shadow, his body withered and his eyes sunken. His fur had fallen out in clumps, his skin cracked. He looked like d.e αth itself, but he was alive. He raised his head, and his gaze met mine. There was a faint fire in his eyes that I feared I’d never see again.
I fell to my knees and whispered his name. He trembled, but he didn’t bark or whine. He just looked. And that gaze held everything: p.a ìn, loneliness, hunger, but also faith. His inner voice resounded within me: «I knew you’d come. I waited for you. Even when days merged into nights, even when hunger t.o ŕe at my stomach, even when I thought my heart would stop. I knew you’d return one day.»
I tore the rusty chain from its deep w.o ∪nds. He breathed freely for the first time in months and rested his head in my arms. I picked him up, light as an empty shell. People looked, and someone said, «Why do you need this skeleton? He’s not going to last anyway.» But I carried him, and every cell in my body screamed, «He’s mine. And I won’t betray him again.»
The weeks after that were a st.ru ğgle. I fed him bit by bit, gave him water from my palms, bandaged his neck. He often slept, and I sat next to him, listening to his breathing. Sometimes it seemed to stop, and I whispered, «No, not now, don’t go.» He opened his eyes, and in them was a question: «Are you here? You won’t disappear?» And I answered, «No. Never now.»
I remembered how he used to bring me slippers when I came home. How he’d happily hover at the door, the mere sound of the key. How he’d lie down on the sofa, burying his nose in my knees. I’d tell him, «Remember how we used to run in the park? We’ll run again. You’ll be strong again.»
And a miracle happened. One morning, he rose on his own. His paws trembled, but he stood. He took a step, then another. His eyes met mine, and in them I saw a light. His gaze said, «I survived. I’m with you again. We will live.»
Now he sleeps at my feet. His body is still covered in s.c αrs, but his heart beats strong and confident. Sometimes he raises his head to the sky when sirens sound in the distance. But he no longer howls. He looks at me, and I hear his silent words: «I’m not alone anymore. You’ve returned. And now we are always together.»
No hunger can break love. No e.x ρlosion can destroy hope. Because a dog’s heart holds what people often lose—unconditional devotion. He was with me in joy and in so.r ŕow, and he remained with me in h.e łl. And now, when I see his eyes, I know: I must live my life in such a way as to be worthy of his loyalty.
➕
