I used to feed a stray pup and his mother every day. He was honestly the most energetic, happy little guy I’ve ever seen—always excited, always ready to eat as many eggs as I brought him.
Every night, he would wait for me. The moment I entered his street, he’d come running straight towards me. His mother would follow too—she had a broken leg, but she still showed up every time.
Last night, when I went there, I didn’t see him anywhere. Only his mother was there. I called out, almost expecting him to pop out like he always did. Instead, his mother suddenly started running down the street, barking at other dogs.
I followed her… and she led me to him.
He was lying there, dead.
She was barking because she was protecting his body from the other dogs. That moment just broke me. I tried to feed her, and she ate a little, but when I went back home, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
It didn’t feel right to just leave him there on the roadside, waiting for a garbage truck. So I went back and buried him.
His mother stood beside me the entire time. She didn’t leave. I swear I could feel her sadness too.
I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard, but it is.
He was just a stray dog to most people, but to me, he was my little buddy.