There are moments in rescue work when words fail us. Times when the suffering is so deep, so unnecessary, that language itself feels powerless.
This was one of those moments.
We found her in a garbage dump, discarded as if she were nothing more than trash. She wasn’t lying quietly—she was struggling, barely clinging to life. Exhausted, covered in wounds, blood dripping from open cuts, her ribs stuck out like jagged lines under her paper-thin skin.
This wasn’t just any stray. She was a purebred pointer—once valued, once chosen for her breed, and then, when she was no longer useful, thrown away like rubbish.
What had she done to deserve this? Nothing. She hadn’t asked for this suffering, hadn’t asked to be betrayed. And yet here she was, broken and bleeding, abandoned by those who once claimed to care.
Terrified and in pain, she lashed out. When we tried to approach, she bared her teeth, snapping desperately, her fear stronger than her strength. Her body trembled violently as if every touch would bring more cruelty.
But we didn’t leave her there. We couldn’t.
We rushed her to the clinic, carrying her frail body as gently as possible. Even the doctors, who had seen so much suffering, froze in shock at her condition.
Her wounds were deep. Her body had lost too much blood. Her eyes, wide and hollow, reflected only despair.
“Prepare for the worst,” the vet told us quietly. “She may not make it through the night.”
Her body was failing, weakened to the point of collapse. We sat beside her all night, praying, begging her to hold on. Blood transfusions were given. Emergency treatments began immediately. Pain relief helped dull the agony that had consumed her for far too long.
We sterilized her wounds, cleaned away the dirt and infection, and carefully dressed them with cantoron bandages. The tissue was rotting, breaking apart in pieces—injuries so severe they defied description.
And yet, by dawn, she was still with us.
We gave her a name: Peri.
That morning, she ate. She drank water. Small actions, but to us, they were monumental. For the first time, we allowed ourselves to hope.
Tests showed a miracle. Despite the horrifying injuries, she had no life-threatening diseases. No distemper, no parvovirus. For once, the news was good.
Her biting reflex faded quickly as she realized we weren’t there to harm her. She still didn’t trust us—how could she?—but she allowed us to tend to her wounds. We cleaned her body with rivenol, applied soothing creams, and disinfected her injuries daily.
Her treatment became a routine. By day, she remained at the clinic under medical supervision. By night, we brought her home to the warmth of a fire, where she slept curled beside the stove, wrapped in blankets.
We changed her bandages again and again, replaced them when they grew damp, and helped her to the bathroom when she needed it. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t move without support. Fear still lingered in her eyes, but each day, it dimmed just a little.
Slowly, Peri began to change.
Her body remained fragile, but her spirit stirred. The wounds started to close, her skin knit itself back together, and her trust, piece by piece, returned.
Weeks later, she was unrecognizable.
The skeletal, bleeding creature we had lifted from the garbage was gone. In her place was a dog learning to live again. She still carried scars—deep ones on her body, invisible ones in her heart—but she no longer hid in fear. She wanted affection, sought comfort, and wagged her tail when she saw us.
Every wound healed except for her right front leg. The damage there was too severe, requiring stitches. But even that didn’t stop her. She moved freely, joyfully, unconcerned with her imperfections.
Peri’s transformation was nothing short of miraculous.
From a half-dead, terrified shell to a playful, affectionate girl who filled our home with energy—she had come back to life. She ran through the house, played with toys, and sought cuddles as if trying to make up for all the years of love she had been denied.
And then came the final chapter in her story.
A kind woman met Peri and immediately fell in love. She saw beyond the scars, beyond the history of suffering. She opened her home and her heart, ready to give Peri what she had never known: permanence.
Peri’s adoption day was filled with tears. We had fought for her, nursed her back from the brink, and watched her bloom. Letting go was never easy, but this was the dream we had for her all along.
Now, in her new home, Peri is thriving. She is loved, spoiled, and safe. Her new family showers her with patience and affection, allowing her to blossom further each day.
Every wag of her tail, every joyful bark, is a reminder of how far she has come.
Peri’s journey—from a garbage heap, bleeding and starved, to a beloved family member—reminds us why we fight for them.
Because every life has value. Because no dog deserves to be abandoned. Because with love, even the most broken can heal.
Peri is no longer a victim. She is a survivor. She is a symbol of resilience.
And she will never be discarded again.
