He never truly had a name. People called him many things—most of them cruel—but the words that stuck the longest were “that deformed mutt.”
Under an old, forgotten bridge, inside the damp hollow of a storm drain, he lived as nothing more than a twisted shadow. No one knew when he had crawled there, or how long he had survived in that darkness. What they did know was simple: he did not belong anywhere. At least, that’s what the world had told him.
The little dog’s body bore the truth of his suffering. His legs bent unnaturally, his spine curved with a painful hunch, and his face carried a permanent expression as though he had been crying since the very day he was born. To some, he was frightening. To others, a nuisance. To most, he was invisible.
Children would hurl stones when he tried to emerge. Adults turned their heads, choosing silence over compassion. And the dog—who one day we would call Bonbon—could never understand why. Why was his existence so offensive? Why did everyone recoil at his presence? He only knew that whenever he crept out of the drain in search of scraps, the same routine repeated: screams, shouts, kicks, and pain.
So he learned to hide. He curled himself deeper into the shadows, his ribs pressing against his fragile skin, his heart beating only for survival. He wept quietly, waiting for the world to end his suffering.
But then—everything changed.
One day, someone stopped.
They did not stop to throw a rock. They did not stop to laugh or to chase him back into his hole. They stopped because, at last, one person saw him not as a monster, but as a living being in need of help. That person made a call. And that call reached us.
We came running.
The sight we found still lingers in our memory. Deep in the cold, damp drain, Bonbon trembled uncontrollably. His eyes, sunken and wide with terror, reflected nothing but years of betrayal. His body was little more than bones loosely wrapped in fur, each movement awkward, as though stitched together by suffering itself.
When he saw us, he panicked. To him, humans were synonymous with pain. Every hand he had ever known had struck, chased, or pushed him away. He did not know what kindness looked like. So when we reached toward him, he recoiled violently, pressing himself against the concrete wall, certain the blows would come again.
It took hours. Hours of sitting patiently, whispering softly, extending food he was too afraid to eat. Hours of waiting for him to believe, even for a second, that not all humans were cruel. Finally, shaking so hard he could barely stand, Bonbon allowed himself to be lifted into our arms. Every touch made him flinch. Every finger brushing his skin was a painful reminder of the past.
At the clinic, the truth unraveled. The vet’s eyes darkened as they examined him. Cracked ribs. Old fractures that had healed incorrectly. Malformed joints. A body molded by neglect and cruelty. When the vet finally spoke, the words were heavy.
“He might only have a few days left.”
The weight of those words nearly crushed us. After everything, after surviving the streets, the storms, the hunger, and the cruelty—was this all the life he would ever know? A handful of days, ending in silence?
But the next morning, Bonbon opened his eyes.
He looked at us differently that day. Not with raw fear, but with something else—something heartbreaking in its innocence. It was as though his eyes asked a single question: “Will you leave me too?”
We answered not with promises, but with action.
Warm meals placed gently beside him. Soft blankets tucked around his fragile frame. Hands that touched tenderly, never to harm. Days became weeks, and slowly, patiently, we showed Bonbon what love felt like.
At first, his body shook endlessly. He could not stop trembling, even in sleep. But then—something miraculous began to happen.
The trembling subsided. His eyes softened. His head began to lean into our hands when we reached to pet him, as if he were testing the possibility that safety might be real. He ate with a little more strength each day, and his steps, though crooked, carried him with renewed determination.
By the third week, the vet’s frown had transformed into a smile.
“Bonbon’s going to live.”
He wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was truly living for the very first time.
Bonbon learned to play. His little crooked legs scrambled after toys with awkward joy, his body uncoordinated but his spirit uncontainable. He learned to snuggle, pressing his misshapen body against us with a tenderness that melted every scar he carried inside. Each evening, he would sit on the porch, gazing at the sunset as if each golden ray was a gift too precious to miss.
It was as though he knew he had nearly lost all of this.
Bonbon may never be adopted. His body will never fit the world’s definition of “perfect.” His walk will always be lopsided, his back bent. People may continue to pass him by, unwilling to see beyond his outward flaws.
But perfection was never the point. Love was.
And Bonbon has more love to give than most hearts could ever hold.
He no longer hides in shadows. He no longer flinches at the sound of footsteps. Today, Bonbon knows that he is safe, that he is wanted, and that he belongs.
So we tell him every day, in words and in the quiet language of gentle hands:
“You don’t have to hide anymore, Bonbon. You are not broken. You are not a mistake. You are family. You are enough. And you are deeply, endlessly loved.”
