09/20/2025
At 2:00 a.m., I found a puppy tied to a bench, and when I checked its leash, my heart stopped.
I shouldn't have been out so late. After finishing my double shift at the restaurant, I missed the last bus and decided to take a shortcut behind Jefferson Street.
The street was dark and empty, filled with shuttered shops, broken windows, and old brochures littered the ground. That's when I saw it: a tiny golden retriever, tied with a worn rope to a rusty bench no bigger than a shoebox.
It sat there quietly, not barking, not whining, just looking at me with the saddest eyes. Its little tail wagged once, as if it still hoped someone would come for it. My heart broke right there. There was no food, no water, no note.
Only a rhinestone badge on its collar, half-hidden under its furry fur, was there. I knelt down, spoke softly, and it let me pet it. Its paws were freezing.
It must have been out for hours. When I turned the tag over, I expected to see his name or maybe a phone number. But instead, there was a small, folded piece of paper on the back of the tag. I nearly ripped it trying to remove it.
The handwriting was messy and rushed, but one line stood out clearly: "If you're reading this, don't take him to the shelter. They've already tried..."
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