Please save my son, don’t let him slip from my arms in this desperation…

I tremble as I hug with all my might the small body weakening in my paws. I feel his breathing grow slower and slower, like a fragile thread threatening to snap at any moment. I want to cover him with my warmth, protect him from the cold and hunger, but my thin paws no longer have the strength, and my heart bleeds with every beat, fearing this is the last moment we share

From the outside, anyone would see only an exhausted mother, with dirty fur, visible ribs, and tear-filled eyes. But inside me, there’s a relentless storm: the unbearable fear of losing him, the helplessness of being able to do nothing but plead with my eyes. I don’t know if he hears the rapid beating of my heart, as if it wants to cling to every second we have left.

I remember the days when I could still lick his little face, watch him sleep peacefully, feel his warm little body curled up against me. I remember how he anxiously searched for my breast, and how I, even tired, found the strength to feed him. Now, every whimper of his is a dagger piercing me, and every glance he gives seems to ask why the world has become so cold

If someone would stop, if a compassionate hand would touch him, perhaps my son would be saved. I ask for nothing for myself: I don’t need food, or shelter, or rest… only that he lives, that he grows, that he sees the light of a new day, and that one day he can wag his tail with joy, running free in the sun.

Don’t let these arms remain empty. Because if he goes, I won’t just lose my son: my heart will forever lose its reason to keep beating. And in that silence, there will be nothing left of me but the echo of a plea no one heard, floating in the air like a lament slowly fading away.