The cruelty seemed endless.
When we first found Rue, he was a shadow of life, collapsed in a hole at the base of a tree. His body was wasted away, skin stretched over sharp bones. His head hung low, his eyes glassy, his breathing shallow. He was too weak to stand, too weak even to walk. Heat stroke, starvation, dehydration—it was a miracle he was still alive at all.
We rushed him to the emergency vet.
There, a team moved quickly to give him every chance. IV fluids dripped slowly into his veins. He was given tiny amounts of food in careful intervals, just enough to keep his fragile body from shutting down. His temperature was dangerously low, his labs poor, parasites likely coursing through him. And yet—Rue clung to life. His will to survive was stronger than the cruelty that had nearly ended him.
Day 4 marked a turning point.
For the first time since his rescue, Rue lifted his head on his own. He stretched his legs, testing them, shaky but determined. And then—he stood. Only for seconds, before collapsing back down. But he had stood. For a dog who had been moments away from death, this was nothing short of a miracle.
He began eating like a champ, drinking water, even taking assisted steps. His weight ticked up—four pounds gained. Hope filled the room. Rue wasn’t giving up, and neither were we.
By Day 7, Rue’s days were full of gentle routine. Six tiny meals, spaced throughout the day. Outside sessions where his legs were stretched and moved to encourage mobility. And love. Endless, overflowing love. With every passing hour, Rue grew a little stronger.
But recovery is never a straight line.
On Day 8, we knew something was wrong. Rue growled in pain when lifted. His energy drained away. The strength he had fought for seemed to vanish. Bloodwork gave us both hope and heartbreak. The good news: refeeding was working, and many of his lab values had returned to normal. The bad news: Rue was dangerously anemic.
The vet gave us two options. A blood transfusion—or the conversation we refused to have: euthanasia.
We chose to fight.
Day 9—the transfusion worked. Rue wasn’t out of the woods, but his eyes had a new light. His breathing steadied. His fragile body had been given a boost of strength. He was still in danger, but he was alive. And he wanted to keep living.
By Day 10, he was still fragile, but his spirit was undeniable. Every small effort, every attempt to stand, every bite of food was an act of courage. We promised him we would walk this road together. Through every trial, he wouldn’t be alone again.
Recovery was slow. Some days better, some harder. But his spirit never wavered. Ours couldn’t either.
Day 13, Rue was calm, surrounded by gentle care. His body still weak, but healing.
By Day 24, progress was undeniable. Rue had regained enough strength to do something ordinary, yet extraordinary for him—he lifted his leg to pee on a bush. For most dogs, a trivial act. For Rue, a milestone. Proof his body was finding normal again.
He preferred the outdoors, where the air was fresh and the sky wide. Inside spaces made him anxious, reminders of fear and confinement. But we worked with him patiently, teaching him that indoors could mean safety too.
And then came Day 30.
What a difference a month made.
The dog who had once been skin and bones, immobile, buried in a hole, waiting to die, was now walking, eating, thriving. He had gained 20 pounds since his rescue. His ribs were still visible, but his frame had filled out with life. Best of all, his body had begun producing its own red blood cells again—a critical milestone for his recovery.
Rue had not only survived. He was healing.
His journey is far from over, but it’s already a testament to resilience. From a hole in the ground to the embrace of a care team who refused to give up, Rue has proven that even the most broken can be rebuilt with patience, medicine, and love.
His name has become a promise: Rue, the brave. Rue, the survivor. Rue, the fighter who refused to give up.
