It was raining. Not just a drizzle — a cold, heavy downpour that soaked everything in seconds.
I was driving home when I saw something move near the edge of the road. At first, I thought it was trash blowing in the wind… until it stumbled.
I pulled over, heart already sinking.
There, curled up in the mud, was a tiny, shaking puppy — drenched, alone, and barely moving. His eyes were half-closed, his fur matted to his body, and he looked so fragile I was afraid to touch him.
But I couldn’t leave him there.
I wrapped him in my jacket and cradled him in my arms. He didn’t bark. He didn’t resist. He just let out a small sigh, like he knew he was finally safe.
I took him home, dried him off, and fed him warm food. I made him a little bed by the heater and sat beside him until he fell asleep — belly full, warm for the first time in who knows how long.
I named him Lucky. Because somehow, in the middle of that storm, he was found. And so was I.
Now Lucky is strong, playful, and full of life — chasing tennis balls like the world is brand new.
And every time I look at him, I remember: sometimes, we don’t rescue them. They rescue us.
