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The puppies huddled in the dirt, their ribs sharp against thin skin. Their eyes, big and trembling, held no mischief, only fear.
They were five, barely alive, curled together in a corner of a yard. The owner said they chased his chickens. He said they needed a lesson. His words were cold, like the ground they lay on.
Their mother was gone. He didn’t know where. Maybe she fled. Maybe she was taken. The puppies didn’t know either. They only knew hunger, the kind that gnaws and leaves you too weak to stand.
I saw them first through a fence, their small bodies pressed tight, as if holding each other could fill their empty bellies. My chest ached. I’d never seen pups so thin, so broken.
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