It was a cold winter morning when we set out to collect dry firewood from the mountain behind our home. At 9 a.m., with our loyal dog trotting ahead, we began the familiar climb. Our plan was simple: gather dry wood and hay before the next snowstorm, so we’d have enough fuel for daily activities.
The air was crisp. Snow crunched softly beneath our boots. But then, something unexpected happened.
Our dog suddenly stopped, ears pricked, and then let out a loud, frantic bark before sprinting ahead toward a large tree. A strange uneasiness rose in my chest. We dropped the firewood and ran after him.
As we reached the tree, we froze.
There, lying motionless beneath its shadow, was a dog.
His face told the story before words ever could—utter exhaustion, pain, and despair. Two clear tear streaks ran down his cheeks. His body was so thin that it was little more than skin stretched over bones. His ribs were visible, each one a silent testament to his suffering.
As we approached, we saw the cause of his agony.
His front leg was caught tightly in a rusty iron trap.
The metal jaws had bitten deep into his flesh, snapping one bone completely. The other leg, injured during his desperate struggle to escape, was also badly damaged. He had been trapped here, alone on the mountain, for days.
A wave of anger and sadness washed over us.
Who had set this cruel trap? And how long had he lain here, helpless in the freezing cold?
We sat down beside him and spoke softly, trying to calm him. At the same time, one of us ran back down the mountain to fetch tools to free him. The dog was terrified, understandably mistrustful after such trauma. He snapped weakly when we tried to touch his feet, his fear greater than his strength.
So we didn’t force it. We stayed beside him. We explained gently what we were doing, letting him hear our voices and feel our presence.
Outside, winter pressed hard. Even though the sun was shining, the temperature remained at -5°C. If he stayed here any longer, exhaustion, hunger, and the cold would have ended his life.
After 30 minutes of quiet patience, something shifted.
His breathing slowed. His eyes softened.
He finally stopped resisting when we reached for his leg.
Working carefully, we pried the trap open. It was old and rusted, the jaws jammed tight, and it took considerable time to free him. When the metal finally released its cruel grip, we gently lifted his frail body and began the slow descent down the mountain.
At the base, our car was waiting. We bundled him inside and drove quickly toward the nearest town. In our rural area, there were no veterinary clinics—only human hospitals—but after two long hours, we reached a city and found an animal hospital willing to help.
The veterinary team sprang into action the moment they saw him. The chief veterinarian examined the wounds, and the dog was rushed to X-ray. The results were grim: both leg bones were broken, one severely crushed.
Worse still, the vet revealed that his injuries were at least a week old. Infection had set in, and the bone tissue was beginning to deteriorate. He had survived an entire week on that mountain, enduring unimaginable pain, freezing temperatures, and starvation.
Tears welled up in everyone’s eyes. None of us could imagine the strength it had taken for him to hold on this long.
The diagnosis was serious. He was feverish, dehydrated, severely undernourished, and fighting infection. His weakened state meant surgery would be extremely risky. But waiting was just as dangerous—the infection in his leg was spreading fast.
We were forced to make a difficult choice.
Operate now and risk his fragile body giving out under anesthesia…
Or wait and risk the infection taking his life.
After a long discussion, we signed the papers.
The surgery had to happen. There was no other way.
The veterinary team moved quickly. Thirty minutes later, he was prepped and taken to the operating room. The vet examined the leg one final time and explained the harsh truth: to save his life, they would have to amputate the severely damaged leg. It was the only way to stop the infection from spreading further.
The operation lasted three tense hours. We paced the hallway in silence, each minute stretching endlessly. Finally, the surgeon emerged.
The operation was a success. Against all odds, he had made it through.
We cried tears of relief. He was brought back to his room, bandaged and resting. Over the next few days, his fever began to drop. On the fourth day, he managed to stand—wobbly but determined—on his three remaining legs. His wound began to heal well under careful monitoring.
We committed ourselves to his recovery fully.
We prepared nutritious meals, feeding him small portions five times a day. He devoured every meal with the desperate hunger of someone who had gone too long without love or care. His weight increased steadily, and his body began to rebuild its strength.
Sixteen days later, the transformation was remarkable. He could get up more easily, walk with growing confidence, and his wounds were nearly healed. At his follow-up checkup, the vet reported that his injuries were 90% recovered. Only one small wound required daily care.
After 25 days, we brought him home permanently. He adapted quickly to family life. He listened, obeyed, and accepted his medication calmly. His appetite flourished. He never left a single scrap of food behind. His body filled out, his face grew softer, and his eyes began to shine.
For weeks, he stayed indoors to keep his healing wounds clean. We cared for him constantly—feeding, bathing, talking, playing. We wanted him to know he was no longer alone.
By Day 42, the miracle was complete.
His wounds were fully healed. The exhaustion that once clouded his face was gone. He could walk and even run again, effortlessly adapting to life on three legs.
We took him on his first neighborhood walk. His tail wagged excitedly as he sniffed everything, his eyes wide with curiosity. He ran alongside us with joy, playing like a dog who had finally discovered freedom.
The past—the pain, the trap, the freezing nights—was behind him.
Now he had friends, a family, and a future.
Every day since, his smile has grown brighter, his spirit stronger. He is loved, safe, and surrounded by warmth. Watching him race across the yard on three legs, you’d never guess the horrors he endured.
This is the story of a dog who survived a mountain trap, endured a week of suffering, lost a leg… and still found the courage to trust, to heal, and to live again.
