12/16/2025
Five days ago, something terrible happened to this dog.
His owner wanted to practice shooting.
He wanted something that could run.
Something that could move.
So he chose a living target.
Later that day, the dog was injured and losing blood profusely.
And instead of being helped, he disappeared.
He hid at the edge of the forest.
Quiet.
Alone.
Enduring.
For five days, he bled.
For five days, he waited.
And his owner didnāt care.
The only reason he didnāt die out there is because a neighbor saw him.
A neighbor who couldnāt look away.
A neighbor who called me.
When I got to him, he couldnāt walk.
Not really.
The worst wound was on his front leg.
It looked like agony had settled there and refused to move.
By the time we reached the veterinarian, he was at his limit.
He fainted.
His breathing turned shallow.
Like his body was finally saying, I canāt do this by myself anymore.
I was terrified.
Terrified the next breath wouldnāt come.
Terrified Iād carried him all this way just to lose him anyway.
The doctors moved fast.
Stabilized him.
Checked his vitals.
And then they asked the question that always cuts deepest.
āWhat happened to him?ā
They ran tests.
Imaging.
Everything they could.
And the results were brutal.
His bones were shattered into small pieces.
His muzzle was full of fragments.
He wasnāt just hurt.
He had been destroyed.
By dawn the next morning, he was a little better.
Still weak.
Still in pain.
But alive.
And alive was everything.
We needed to transfer him to another veterinarian.
A place equipped for a surgery this complex.
We held onto one hope with both hands.
Please let them save his leg.
While the vets worked, we reported the owner to the authorities.
Not revenge.
Accountability.
Because this wasnāt an accident.
This was a choice.
The next update came like a punch.
The doctor told us it was too late.
The leg wasnāt truly attached anymore.
It was inflamed.
Infected.
Beyond saving.
His owner had a window to get help.
A chance to save that leg.
And he didnāt take it.
So Momo had to.
Momo needed two surgeries.
One to remove the fragments.
And one to amputate.
Heās a husky.
A breed built for running.
For speed.
For joy that moves.
Losing a front leg felt unfair in a way I canāt fully explain.
But at that moment, the goal wasnāt perfection.
The goal was survival.
During surgery, I stood at a distance and cried.
Not because I doubted him.
Because I couldnāt carry the pain for him.
He stood there earlier and called out to me.
Like he was asking me not to leave.
So I wiped my tears and prayed.
For strength.
For healing.
For a future that didnāt hurt so much.
We stayed at the vet for three weeks.
Three weeks of recovery.
Bandages.
Medication.
Quiet progress.
The doctors kept saying the same thing.
āItās a miracle heās alive.ā
And it was.
Then came the part no one glamorizes.
Learning to walk.
Walking on three legs isnāt simple.
Itās balance and muscle and trust.
Itās falling and trying again anyway.
So we trained.
For two weeks.
Small steps.
Small victories.
And then, finally, the day arrived.
The day Momo left the veterinarian.
Itās hard to describe what he felt.
Excited.
Anxious.
Like he couldnāt believe freedom was real.
The doctors sent us home with medication.
Instructions.
Warnings.
Hope.
And I looked at him and said it out loud.
āAre you ready, Momo?ā
A month later, walking became easier.
He moved with more confidence.
More rhythm.
Then one day, he tried to run.
And at first, it looked impossible.
Like his body remembered who he used to be,
but didnāt know how to get there.
Around that time, the authorities called.
The owner confessed.
He wanted to meet us.
Wanted to apologize to Momo.
We refused.
Some apologies donāt belong to the victim.
And some people donāt deserve access to the life they tried to break.
He will face what he did.
Momo, meanwhile, did what dogs do best.
He forgave the world.
Not with words.
With softness.
He began looking at me like family.
We went back for a follow-up.
His stitches were healing well.
The doctors decided it was time to remove them.
And Momo surprised me again.
He lay still.
No fear.
No fight.
Like he understood the hands around him were helping now.
After everything heād survived,
this was nothing.
When it was over, the doctor smiled.
Momo was ready.
Ready for a new life.
No one believed he could live through what happened to him.
But he did.
And then something happened that made me laugh through tears.
He got fast.
So fast I had to drive alongside him just to keep up.
A three-legged dog.
Keeping balance like it was normal.
Running like joy was still his birthright.
Having him in my life feels like a gift I didnāt earn.
A life handed back to us when it shouldnāt have been possible.
Heās sweet.
Affectionate.
Gentle.
And life with us is simple.
Itās walks.
Play.
Warm beds.
Endless happy days.
