Lisa lay collapsed in the middle of the road, on the hot asphalt, surrounded by dust and the roar of vehicles. She didn’t bark, she didn’t whimper, she didn’t move. Her body was covered in wounds, her belly swollen with pregnancy. Every breath was a struggle. Every time she closed her eyes, she wondered, “Will anyone come?” But no one came. No one stopped. No one bent down. No one asked, “Are you okay?” Only passing wheels, honking horns, and an indifference that hurt more than her injuries.
Lisa wasn’t a stray dog. She once had a home. She had an owner. She had a name spoken with affection. She ran through gardens, wagged her tail, believed that love was eternal. And she gave everything: every gesture, every glance, every heartbeat. But one day she was abandoned. Perhaps because she was pregnant. Perhaps because she got sick. Perhaps because she was no longer “adorable.” And so, she was thrown out onto the street—without goodbyes, without anyone to look back.
She no longer had the strength to get up. Not even to call for help. She just lay there amidst the trash and the burning asphalt. No one knew how long she’d been there. But every minute was a battle—not against death, but against oblivion. Her eyes no longer pleaded. There was no hope. Only silent resistance remained.
A little girl walked by. It wasn’t her crying that stopped her. It was her gaze—one that no longer asked for anything, but still held a spark of life. The little girl had nothing but her heart. But that heart did what many adults didn’t: it stopped. It called out to the adults. They came. They picked her up. They took her to a clinic.
The veterinarians stated the obvious: multiple wounds, dehydration, extreme exhaustion. But what left them speechless was her gaze—one that had witnessed contempt far too often. Lisa didn’t resist. She didn’t tremble. She simply allowed herself to be cared for. Not out of trust, but because she no longer had the strength to distrust. They gave her a name: Lisa.
One of the puppies in her womb didn’t survive. The others, weak, struggled to live. Lisa never took her eyes off them. Even though it hurt, even though she was exhausted, she kept warm. Because if she lived, they had to live too.
Day after day, Lisa began to heal. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t miraculous. It was step by step. She began to eat. To stand up. To look at humans without trembling. But she didn’t forget. She never would. Every time she heard a car, she jumped. Every time someone walked quickly, she flinched. Because memories don’t disappear. They just wait for a sound to awaken them.
Today, Lisa has a home. She has people who love her. She has children growing up healthy. She no longer lies on the road. She no longer breathes in fear. But every night, she curls up in the darkest corner. Not out of fear. But out of memory.
Lisa is one among thousands of abandoned lives. But she survived. Not by magic. But by a look. A hand. A heart that knew when to stop. And if this world still has people like that little girl, then perhaps lives like Lisa’s still have a chance. Not only to exist—but to be loved as they deserve.