I found her lying near the edge of a quiet street — barely noticeable, curled tightly around her belly, her body trembling with every breath. At first, I thought she was injured. But as I got closer, I saw tiny movements under her, soft whimpers, and the unmistakable signs of labor. She was giving birth — alone, scared, and in pain, on an old, blood-stained blanket someone had likely tossed aside.
Her fur was matted and thin, her ribs showing through her skin. But her eyes — tired as they were — never left her puppies. With every contraction, she whimpered softly, yet refused to move away from them. That kind of strength — that silent, maternal courage — broke my heart in the best and worst ways.
I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I couldn’t walk away. I ran home, grabbed gloves, clean towels, and came back hoping she’d still be there. She looked up at me, unsure, but didn’t move. She let me help. I cleaned the pups gently, whispered to her that she was safe now. And I meant it.
That night, I sat beside her until the last puppy arrived. She rested her head near my leg, exhausted, but no longer alone. She had done the hardest part — and now it was my turn to protect her.
