We almost missed him, that’s how quiet he was. Too weak to make a peep. No bark, no sound at all, not even a rustle from his chain, just the silence and a tail between the legs. He was the weakest of the four. The signs of prolonged deterioration showed on his coat. Misha was the second of four emaciated chained dogs. I honestly did not think he was going to make it. He reminded me how delicate and fragile life is. His journey to recovery continues and yet he too is in the process of rewriting his narrative.
Shame, Shame, Shame
Unlike the others who gulped down food and water, he was slow, like it was too taxing a task. I was convinced this would not end well. An overwhelming sense of hopelessness. I am so sorry, forgive me, I will be braver next time. In self-preservation, I turned away. Leave him in the hands of those more equipped, that’s what I kept telling myself.
Taken by surprise
It has been two weeks since the rescue. I went to check on Sasha. Who’s familiar tan and white face is that next door? I questioned the staff charged with his care, they confirmed it, it was one of the rescued four. Hospital staff must have worked miracles that day, and the days after, for us to unexpectedly meet again. Now he barks and the tail is wagging, You have picked up weight, I said. Like old friends who have not seen each other for a while and then seamlessly pick up from where we left off that day. Misha means gift from God. He brought the gift of hope.