The Little Fighter
We stayed with the puppy for hours, watching as it slowly began to relax under the vet’s care. After a small meal and a warm blanket, it even wagged its tail — just once, shyly, like it wasn’t sure it was allowed to.
We named it “Lucky.” Because that’s exactly what it was — lucky to still be alive, lucky to have been found before the night, before hunger or fear took over completely.
The vet smiled when we told her. “That’s a good name,” she said. “But you two — you’re lucky too. Not everyone gets to make a difference like this.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way.
