I did not stay
I walked away
I don't know why
I let it die
The other day I was walking by a garbage dumpster. I heard a tiny little cry in there, so I tried to follow the sound. I had to move some garbage around. I found a tiny little baby puppy maybe just a few hours old. I don't know if the mother had birthed it in the dumpster or if someone had thrown it away. I lean towards the latter. It was a very hot day and it was sweltering in the bin. Babies and heat don't mix.
I touched it's little head and it stopped crying for a second. In a flash, a hundred concerns passed through my head. I live in a foreign country and don't feel I have the skills yet to even meet all of my own needs. How can I care for this tiny little thing? Where do I buy it special milk, a syringe or nipple to feed it with? I know very little about my surroundings still. Where is a vet? When I travel, who will watch it for me? If I love it, and it dies, will I survive the heart break?
In Albania, as in most developing countries, I see dead dogs in the street or dying in the gutter. Dogs with no hair or crippled or starving. Animals are not taken care of and are disposed of as garbage. They don't spay or neuter. It's a harsh reality, and I've learned to build protection around my heart when I see a suffering animal. Protection of my heart is a survival tool I learned in Africa. It was there I saw so much death, disease, abuse, and torture. Protect my heart or die of sadness.
I cried for a minute, petting its head. Then I made a decision to let it go. I decided not to prolong its suffering. I walked away. I did not stay. I let it die....
I walked away
I don't know why
I let it die
The other day I was walking by a garbage dumpster. I heard a tiny little cry in there, so I tried to follow the sound. I had to move some garbage around. I found a tiny little baby puppy maybe just a few hours old. I don't know if the mother had birthed it in the dumpster or if someone had thrown it away. I lean towards the latter. It was a very hot day and it was sweltering in the bin. Babies and heat don't mix.
I touched it's little head and it stopped crying for a second. In a flash, a hundred concerns passed through my head. I live in a foreign country and don't feel I have the skills yet to even meet all of my own needs. How can I care for this tiny little thing? Where do I buy it special milk, a syringe or nipple to feed it with? I know very little about my surroundings still. Where is a vet? When I travel, who will watch it for me? If I love it, and it dies, will I survive the heart break?
In Albania, as in most developing countries, I see dead dogs in the street or dying in the gutter. Dogs with no hair or crippled or starving. Animals are not taken care of and are disposed of as garbage. They don't spay or neuter. It's a harsh reality, and I've learned to build protection around my heart when I see a suffering animal. Protection of my heart is a survival tool I learned in Africa. It was there I saw so much death, disease, abuse, and torture. Protect my heart or die of sadness.
I cried for a minute, petting its head. Then I made a decision to let it go. I decided not to prolong its suffering. I walked away. I did not stay. I let it die....