It was an ordinary afternoon—one of those slow, uneventful walks home from school, where my thoughts drifted between homework, the smell of freshly baked samosas from the corner shop, and whether I had remembered to return a friend’s book.
Then, just as I turned a familiar street corner, I saw it.
A tiny puppy, curled up near a lamppost, shivering against the evening chill.
Its fur was patchy, its ribs visible beneath the thin skin, and its body was so still that, for a moment, I feared the worst. But then, as I took a hesitant step closer, it lifted its head ever so slightly and looked straight at me.
A small flicker of movement—a weak but hopeful wag of its tiny tail.
Something inside me tightened. That small movement felt like a plea, a question asked without words: Will you help me? Will you stop? Will you care?
I knelt down beside it, my schoolbag slipping from my shoulder as I reached out a cautious hand. It flinched at first, instinctively bracing for something bad. My heart ached. How many times had it been shooed away? Kicked? Ignored?
I softened my voice. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”
The puppy hesitated but sniffed my fingers, and then, as if deciding I was safe, it leaned against my hand.
That was it. That was all it took.
I couldn’t walk away.
Gently, I scooped it up, feeling how fragile it was. It weighed almost nothing, its tiny body trembling against my chest. I could feel its heartbeat—fast, desperate, as if afraid this warmth would be taken away too soon.
I wrapped my sweater around it, holding it close as I made my way home, my pace quickening with every step.
When I walked into the house, my mother took one look at the bundle in my arms and sighed. “Mayuri…” she said, in that way only mothers can—half exasperated, half resigned. “We can’t take in every stray”.
She had a point. This wasn’t the first time I had brought home a lost animal, and she had learned to brace herself for my soft heart and stubborn resolve.
But this time, I didn’t hesitate.
I looked up at her, my voice steady, filled with something deeper than innocence—something unwavering. “If we don’t, who will?”
She exhaled, a long, thoughtful breath. And then, after a pause that felt like forever, she gave a small nod.
“Alright,” she said. “But he stays in your room tonight.”
Relief flooded through me. I rushed to my room, setting the puppy down gently on an old, soft blanket. I fetched a bowl of milk, watching as he lapped it up eagerly, his tiny body trembling a little less with each sip.
For the first time in what was probably a very long time, he was safe.
That night, I lay on the floor beside him, feeling the warmth of his small body as he curled up next to me, trusting me completely. I watched his breathing slow, his tiny chest rising and falling, as he drifted into a peaceful sleep.
I whispered, “You’re home now.”
And even though he couldn’t understand my words, I knew he felt them.
The next morning, I woke up to the puppy’s tiny paws pressing against my hand. He looked up at me with big, trusting eyes, and for a moment, I thought about keeping him forever. But deep down, I knew that love isn’t always about holding on—it’s about doing what’s best.
My mother and I made some calls and found a local animal shelter that took in strays, nursed them back to health, and helped them find loving homes. It was a place filled with people who cared as much as I did, and when they assured me that he would be well taken care of, I finally let go.
At the shelter, I placed him gently in the caretaker’s arms. He whimpered once, looking back at me, and my heart clenched. I wanted to explain to him that this wasn’t abandonment—it was a new beginning. But I could only hope he understood.
As we left, I glanced back one last time. He was already being carried inside, his tiny tail wagging just a little more confidently now.
And I knew—he was going to be okay.