Considered nothing more than a machine, the old dog lay forgotten in the heart of the deep forest, his body broken, his spirit barely holding on. He had once served faithfully—pulling carts, guarding doors, chasing intruders. No rest, no warmth, no kindness—only commands, and punishment when he faltered. He had grown slow with age, his joints stiff, his eyes dim. And so, when he could no longer serve, they discarded him like rusted metal, dragged him into the woods and left him there.
Now, he lay still, his ribs showing beneath thinning fur, his body crawling with maggots that writhed in old wounds no one had cared to heal. Each movement was agony, yet he whimpered softly, not out of pain, but from a loneliness too deep for words.
“Is this all I am?” he cried into the silence, his voice hoarse and cracked. “A tool to be used and then thrown away?”
The trees did not answer. The forest, vast and uncaring, stood watch as time passed slowly around him. The buzzing of flies was constant, and the scent of decay hung heavy in the air. Still, the dog’s cloudy eyes searched the shifting branches above, hoping to see a familiar face, hear a name once lovingly spoken.
But none came.
He was not a machine. He remembered love once, long ago, in a time before the orders, before the chains. A child had once held him, fed him crumbs, whispered secrets into his ears. That memory, distant and soft, was all he had now.
And as the wind passed gently through the trees, brushing against his matted fur like a farewell, a single tear slid down his cheek.
Even a dying soul, discarded and crawling with maggots, can still remember what it means to be loved.
