The rain had been falling for hours, washing over the muddy hillside. The path was slick, the rocks unstable. Each step felt like a gamble. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the shadows of a collapsed shelter, a faint sound could be heard—half whimper, half silence. “Be careful,” one rescuer muttered to another. “It’s slippery. Don’t fall.” They crouched low, peering into the crumbling pit. And then, they saw him.
A golden retriever. Filthy. Frail. His coat matted with mud and patches of fur missing. He wasn’t old—his eyes, though dulled with exhaustion, still carried the spark of youth. But his body told another story: a belly grotesquely swollen with fluid, ribs jutting beneath thinning skin, and legs trembling under his own weight. For how long had he been lying there? Days? Weeks? Abandoned, starving, his body fighting a losing battle. One rescuer reached out. The dog flinched, then froze, too weak to resist. Carefully, they pulled him free from the mud. The rain dripped onto his muzzle, but he didn’t shake it off. He had no energy left to care. “Get him up here,” someone said softly. “Quick, before he slips again.” The golden retriever—later named Xiang—was carried to safety. His breaths came shallow, but steady. His rescuers knew one thing instantly: this was not a case of simple hunger. Something deeper was wrong.
At the shelter, they placed a small dish of food in front of Xiang. To their relief, he ate. Slowly, shakily, but with determination. Hunger, at least, still lived inside him. Appetite was hope. Yet as he lay down, his abdomen looked unnatural, distended like a balloon stretched too far. One rescuer pressed gently and frowned. “This isn’t just malnutrition,” he whispered. “This is ascites. Fluid. His liver is failing.” The others exchanged worried glances. They knew the truth—ascites was not easy to treat. For dogs, it often meant a long, uncertain struggle. No quick cure. No miracle solution. Only patience, medicine, and time. Still, they wouldn’t give up. “He eats,” one rescuer said firmly. “That means he fights. If he fights, then so will we.”
The mud was washed from his fur. Warm water ran dark with dirt. His body shivered, but once wrapped in towels, his eyes closed in fragile relief. For perhaps the first time in weeks, he felt comfort. Over the next days, Xiang’s caregivers watched over him like family. They monitored every bite of food, every drop of water. They drained liters of fluid from his swollen belly, giving him the chance to breathe easier, to lie down without pain. His fur, however, told another painful story. Whole clumps fell away at the touch, revealing irritated skin beneath. Malnutrition had left him fragile; his body could not hold onto even the simplest protections. But the rescuers didn’t see ugliness. They saw resilience. Each broken hair was proof of survival.
Children from the nearby village came to visit. They peered at the golden dog with wide eyes. “What’s his name?” one girl asked. “Xiang,” said a rescuer. “It means fragrance, hope… golden.” The girl bent down, stroking the dog’s head gently. Xiang’s tail, thin as a twig, wagged once. Just once—but enough to make everyone in the room smile. “See that?” another rescuer said softly. “He still knows love.” From that moment on, Xiang wasn’t just a dog fighting an illness. He was family.
The truth was harsh: no matter how much he ate, Xiang didn’t gain weight. The nutrients weren’t being absorbed. His liver could no longer process food properly. What went in his body often ended up in the swollen cavity of his abdomen. It was heartbreaking. The rescuers cooked chicken breast, stews, nourishing meals—but his body betrayed him. He grew weaker some days, stronger on others, like a flickering flame fighting the wind. Sometimes he stood, proud and defiant. Other times, he collapsed, legs trembling, eyes dimming. “He just needs time,” one whispered. “More care. More love. He can make it.” And so they held on, refusing to let despair win.
On good days, they carried Xiang outside. The autumn sun was gentle, a warmth that healed without burning. He lay on the grass, eyes half-closed, ears twitching at the sound of birds. “Look at him,” said a rescuer, smiling faintly. “He’s golden again in the light.” Neighbors stopped by, offering small donations of food or medicine. Some simply came to see him, to remind themselves that compassion still lived in their village. It wasn’t just Xiang who needed healing—sometimes, it felt like everyone who touched him found a little piece of hope in return.
But hope and reality often collide. Despite draining his abdomen again and again, the fluid returned. His nose bled unexpectedly. His body remained frail. One rescuer sat beside him late one evening, running fingers through his thinning fur. “Why does the world let good souls suffer?” he whispered. “You deserve better than this, Xiang.” The golden retriever rested his head against the man’s knee. His eyes, though weary, were trusting. As if to say: I know. But I am still here.
Over two days, the team drained thousands of milliliters of fluid from Xiang’s body. It was exhausting, dangerous, but necessary. Without it, his swollen belly could crush his organs. “Life is cruel,” one rescuer admitted. “But he is teaching us what it means to fight.” In the dim shelter, Xiang lifted his head, licking the hand that fed him. His tail moved again, ever so slightly. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to remind them why they stayed, why they risked heartbreak again and again. Because sometimes, the fire of life doesn’t blaze. Sometimes, it flickers. Sometimes, it is fragile, trembling, nearly invisible. But as long as it exists—no matter how faint—it is worth protecting.
Xiang’s future was uncertain. Each day could be his last. Or it could be another step toward healing. No one knew. But what they did know was this: he was no longer alone. No longer abandoned in the mud, no longer left to die in silence. He was loved. Truly loved. Perhaps that was the miracle all along. Not a cure, not a guarantee of tomorrow—but the simple act of being seen, being cared for, being given the dignity every life deserves. And so, under the autumn sun, with children’s laughter in the distance and gentle hands at his side, Xiang lay quietly. His story wasn’t finished. Whether short or long, it was finally his own. A golden retriever once forgotten. Now remembered. Now cherished.
