Even now. Even after everything. He sleeps pressed against the cold wall, even though a warm
cushion is waiting right beside him. He keeps his eyes open, even when he’s tired. He startles
at every sound, every shadow.
He hasn’t realized yet that he’s safe.
I found him outside, on a day when I wasn’t looking for anything. That’s often how real
encounters happen. He was curled up between two garbage bags, ribs showing, eyes fixed, almost
absent. He didn’t try to run. He had already withdrawn from the world. Closed himself off.
He didn’t bark. He didn’t even tremble. He was just waiting—for it to pass, or to end.
I crouched down. Reached out a hand. He didn’t look at it. But he didn’t move either. So, very
gently, I wrapped a blanket around him. And he let me. Without joy, but without fear. Just…
empty. As if somewhere along the path of survival, he had lost himself.
I brought him home. Not to force anything. Not to rush him. Just to offer a place where he
wouldn’t have to be on guard anymore. Not right away. Not completely. But a beginning.
Today, he’s here. In this photo. Still pressed against the wall. Still ready to retreat at the
slightest movement. He doesn’t know yet that I love him. That I’m here to stay. That this time,
no one’s going to leave him. He doesn’t know yet that he can relax. Sleep deeply. Eat slowly.
Trust.
But I know. I know it will come.
I don’t count the days. I don’t want to force a timeline on him. He has his own story, his
fears, his memories. A battered inner world I’ll never fully understand. But what I can offer
him is my patience. My silence. My hand, held out again and again. My love—quiet, but constant.
I’ll take care of him. Until he stops turning his head at every step. Until he falls asleep in
warmth without checking his surroundings. Until, one day, his tail moves—hesitantly. Until he
understands that this house is his. And that I’m here. For good.
He’s not quite saved yet.
But he’s no longer alone
Credit goes first owner