He didn’t bark. He didn’t cry. He didn’t move. He just sat there on the dry earth, head down, his body covered in open wounds that gave off an unbearable smell. His skin was broken, inflamed, scarred by time, neglect, and pain. Every inch of his body told a story no one wanted to hear
He wasn’t old. He wasn’t aggressive. He wasn’t dangerous. He was just a dog who, at some point, had an owner. Someone who fed him, who tied him up with a blue rope, who took him for walks. But that someone disappeared. Left him behind. Forgot him. And since then, he became a body no one looked at, a presence no one acknowledged.
The wounds weren’t just physical. There was something in his eyes that hurt more than the torn skin. A mixture of resignation and hope. As if, despite everything, he still hoped someone would see him. That someone would come near. That someone would say, “You matter.”
But no one did.
People passed by. Days passed. Rain came and went. And he was still there. Sitting. Without the strength to get up. Without a voice to ask for help. Only with that silent gesture—that posture that seemed to say, “I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to disappear without anyone knowing I was here.”
The smell of his wounds was strong. So strong that many moved away. Some looked at him with pity. Others with disgust. But no one stopped. No one asked. No one offered water. No one offered love.
Until someone truly saw him.
It wasn’t by chance. It was because, amidst so much indifference, there are still eyes that know how to see beyond the pain. That person approached. Not with fear. But with compassion. Not in a hurry. But with respect. They touched him gently. They wrapped him up. They spoke to him in a soft voice. And for the first time, he didn’t feel invisible.
They took him to a safe place. They cleaned his wounds. They gave him food. They gave him time. They gave him a name. And little by little, he began to understand that not all humans abandon. That not every day ends in silence.
The recovery was slow. Each wound took time to heal. But the hardest thing was healing his soul. Learning to trust. Learning to sleep without fear. Learning that love still exists
This text isn’t just about him. It’s about all those still sitting, covered in wounds, begging for one last chance. Because as long as there is a being who cannot get up, but still wants to live, we will continue to tell these stories. So that the world doesn’t forget. So that abandonment isn’t the last thing they feel. So that, one day, each of them will be seen—and saved.