It was early in the morning, and the road was quiet except for the occasional passing motorbike. As I walked along the edge of the street, I heard a faint sound—a high-pitched whimper, so soft it was almost drowned out by the wind. I stopped and listened carefully. The tiny cry came again, trembling and desperate. Following the sound, I found a heartbreaking sight beside a pile of dry leaves—a newborn puppy, no bigger than my hand, its umbilical cord still attached.
The poor little one was lying helplessly on the cold ground, eyes closed, body shaking with every weak cry. It was clear that he had just been born, and his mother was nowhere to be found. Maybe she was frightened away by traffic, or maybe something had happened to her. Whatever the reason, the tiny puppy was alone—calling into the empty air as if hoping his mother would come back.
I felt my heart tighten. There was no time to think; he wouldn’t survive long in the cold. I carefully picked him up, wrapping him in my handkerchief to give him warmth. He whimpered again, his tiny mouth opening and closing, still calling for the mother who wouldn’t return.
At home, I made a small box lined with soft towels and placed a warm water bottle beneath to mimic his mother’s body heat. Then I fed him drop by drop with warm milk using a syringe. At first, he struggled, but soon he began to drink, his tiny tail twitching faintly.
For days, I kept waking every two hours to feed him. Slowly, his strength returned—his cries grew louder, his body warmer. And one morning, when he finally opened his eyes for the first time, I knew he had decided to live.
He no longer whimpered for his lost mother. Instead, he snuggled into my palm, safe and loved. That fragile life left on the roadside had found a new beginning—and I had found a tiny soul that would forever remind me how powerful compassion can be.
