I carried him straight into the treatment room with my scrub top soaking through from the rain on his fur. Our veterinarian stayed late to help me stabilize him. We cleaned wounds, checked for fractures, started fluids, and did everything we could to get him through the night. I kept waiting for him to slip away.
He didn’t.
By morning, he was still here.
I named him Patch because that’s what he looked like—like life had torn him up and somebody had stitched the pieces together with whatever was left.
He had a limp after that. His ear never stood up right again. A white scar ran across his nose, and one eye always looked a little softer than the other, like it had seen too much.
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