When I was young, I always wished we had a pet. But my mom used to say, “Growing you itself is a big responsibility, how can we take care of pets?” Back then, I didn’t fully understand. Today, I think I do.
We didn’t have a pet -but love found us anyway.
There was a dog near our home, about a year old. We knew his mother; she used to roam around our street. He was her playful, energetic son. We called him Fiddle.
Fiddle was different. He wasn’t just a street dog. He was affectionate in the purest way. Every time he saw us, he would run toward us, full of excitement. Yet he never jumped on us. He showed his love gently, as if he understood boundaries. Slowly, feeding him became part of our daily routine. It didn’t feel like charity. It felt like family.
Then one day, everything changed.
Some other dogs in the street attacked him badly. He was severely injured and too frightened to even step outside our gate. Seeing him like that broke something inside us. We contacted Blue Cross, and they helped treat his wounds. For a few days, he seemed better. His body healed.
But his old enthusiasm never returned.
Soon after, he left this world.
We buried him in an empty land near our home with the help of our neighbors. It was a very quiet goodbye. But he left something behind - his tiny paw prints on our painted doorstep. They are still there. And they will always remain, not just on the floor, but in our hearts.
We never officially had a pet.
But we loved one.
And he loved us back. 🐾
