That morning began like any other. I rose early and made my way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. But as I stepped inside, I froze. Curled up beside the stove, hidden in the shadows, was a mother dog with her tiny puppies. Perhaps it was the cold night air outside, or the faint warmth still lingering from the stove, that had drawn them in. Whatever the reason, they had chosen my kitchen as their refuge.
The mother stirred when she saw me. Immediately she leaned forward, trying to pick up one of her puppies who had crawled too far from her side. Again and again she attempted to carry him back, but her body trembled with weakness, and she could not. The little one, sensing her worry, turned clumsily and tried to crawl back on his own. His legs were too small, his movements shaky. He stumbled and fell, and the mother watched with desperate eyes, trying to help.
Finally she gathered him back, curling her thin body around the litter protectively. Her posture made it clear: she was guarding them from me. Her eyes flicked between me and her babies, every muscle taut with fear that I might harm them. She pressed herself deeper against the stove wall, curling tighter around the fragile lives depending on her.
I crouched, extending my hand slowly, speaking in a soft voice. She raised her head, watching me with sharp suspicion. The puppy at her side grew restless, and she lowered her head quickly, licking him gently, comforting him with a mother’s touch. One of the puppies rooted against her belly, searching for milk, while the others slept soundly, unmoving. Concern filled me as I shone a flashlight over them, checking if they were truly safe.
I knew she needed food. Searching the kitchen, I found some pork, skewered it on chopsticks, and offered it. The mother’s eyes lit up immediately. She licked her mouth, clearly starving, but when I held the food out she only sniffed it. She looked at the meat, then at her puppies, hesitation written all over her face. I thought perhaps she feared me, so I placed the meat on the floor and stepped back. She stretched her mouth toward it, licked it once, but then placed it carefully onto the body of one of her puppies.
And then I understood. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to eat. She wanted to save it for her children. That realization struck me deeply. Even in her hunger, her only thought was for them.
I tried again with a plate, pushing it toward her. She nudged it back as if to say: not me, just help my babies. My heart ached. I reached carefully to lift one of the tiny pups, but the mother grew frantic, trying to pull him back. She wasn’t trying to harm me; she just wanted her child returned. In my hands, the puppy was limp, cold. He had no signs of life. Sadness washed over me as I realized I was too late for him.
The mother whimpered, pushing the food away with her nose, her eyes fixed on the lifeless body in my hands. She seemed to beg me silently: give him back. My tears came easily as I placed him gently beside her. I knew then I had to help the others, whatever it took.
I tried tempting her with cat treats from my cupboard. Hunger finally overcame her fear, and she ate quickly. Little by little, her body relaxed. She allowed me closer, even let me touch her head. With trembling hands, I picked up another puppy. My heart sank again. He too showed no signs of life. If only I had discovered them sooner, perhaps they could have been saved. I thought I heard her sob quietly, as if grieving with me.
Determined, I gathered the remaining pups. I moved them carefully toward the doorway, hoping to coax her out. She hesitated, torn between her fear of me and her love for her babies. At last, she stepped forward, eyes never leaving her children. She followed as I carried them into another room, anxious but not resisting.
There, I built her a small den using a chair and blankets. She understood immediately, lying down in the space as if she had been waiting for this moment. I returned the surviving puppies to her side. One of them, though still blind, crawled with surprising energy until he nestled against her belly. I covered them with a blanket to keep them warm. For the first time, they looked safe.
I poured goat’s milk into a bowl and set it near her. She drank quickly, her thirst overwhelming. I poured more into my hand, and she lapped it up eagerly. When the bowl was empty, I filled it again until she was satisfied. Lacking proper dog food, I gave her some cat food, worried she might refuse. But she wasn’t picky; she ate every morsel, strength slowly returning to her body.
The next day, sunlight streamed in through the window. The surviving puppy stirred, waking and crawling around the den. His tiny eyes had begun to open. It was a small miracle. The mother returned soon after, lying back down to nurse him. When I reached to pet her, she dodged slightly, not fully used to my touch, but no longer as fearful as before. Her trust was growing.
Days passed. I fed her snacks and meals, sometimes offering treats directly from my hand. She ate, then lay down to nurse her pup. The little one drank greedily, tail wagging faintly. His strength grew with each passing day. By the fourteenth day, I prepared small soft treats for him. He ate them eagerly, nibbling from my palm with determination. My heart swelled with relief.
Weeks went by, and the change was astonishing. The puppy grew stronger, walking unsteadily at first, then with confidence. The mother regained her energy, her eyes brighter, her body no longer frail. She wagged her tail when I entered, allowing me to stroke her head and feed her without hesitation. They had adapted, becoming part of the rhythm of my home.
On the thirty-fourth day, I woke to see her nursing him calmly, the two of them bathed in morning light. Afterward, I prepared food for her while the puppy played energetically, crawling across the floor. They had found peace, warmth, and security here. The fear that had once filled her eyes was gone, replaced with quiet gratitude.
The journey had not been easy. We had lost some of her puppies, a grief I will never forget. But we saved her, and we saved one strong little pup who now runs, eats, and plays with joy. Together, they have found safety. Together, they have found a family.
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