I had no intention of stopping. My phone was at 5% and groceries in the backseat. BUT I spotted him lying by the curb, head barely up, ribs exposed, and one ear bent like it was torn long ago.
I got close but he didn’t run. He stared at me like he knew I wouldn’t hurt him. His legs shook when he tried to stand, and when I squatted down, he limped over and fell into my lap like we’d known each other forever.
That was two weeks ago. Despite his lack of vitality, I named him Mello. He follows me around, wants to jump in my lap while I cook, work, and even brush my teeth. Even if his body is recovering, he must touch me.
I took him to the vet the next morning. He had mange, a lung infection, two shattered ribs, and an unidentified X-ray. They warned me about the cost of my medications. I cared not. I couldn’t leave him.
He whines if I’m away from the couch, where I sleep because it’s lower. Since bringing him home, I haven’t slept well, but I don’t care.
Strange part? While getting him checked out yesterday, the vet inquired if I had him microchipped recently. I refused—he was stray. She scanned again and scowled.
She added, “This chip was registered two years ago. And the listed name is not yours.”
My head spun when I heard that. Two years ago? How did he find up homeless, half-starved, and alone if he was chipped? I informed the vet I’d consider contacting the microchip registration contact after receiving a printout. A part of me was scared. His original family might be looking for him. What if they abandoned him? Endless questions.
Next day, while Mello slept on my leg, I called the number. It was like having 100 butterflies in my stomach. Suppose someone answered and demanded their dog.
Woman picked up. She spoke calmly despite fatigue. I introduced myself and described how I found a puppy with her name on its chip. She was silent for a while, and I believed the call dropped. She whispered, “I lost him… a year ago.”
Introducing herself as Raya. She told me her family rescued Mello, then Rusty, as a puppy. They adored and cared for him. However, her husband lost his job and they moved in with relatives who didn’t allow dogs. Rusty left their yard one night in a rainstorm while they scrambled to locate him a new home. They never found him despite searching everywhere.
Her voice rang with sadness. “We never stopped hoping he’d be okay,” Raya added. “I appreciate your call… how’s he?
Mello’s state was difficult to describe. I didn’t want to worry her, but I couldn’t lie. She sat quiet for a moment before telling me she couldn’t take him back. She lamented, “Things have gotten complicated, and we still can’t have pets here. However, I appreciate your care for him.”
I felt guilty and relieved after hanging up. I didn’t need to say goodbye to Mello. He was mine now. However, it broke my heart to think of how much love he had once had and how someone had battled for him.
In the following week, Mello showed new life. I carefully portioned his medications to make him comfortable as his injuries persisted. However, calling him “Mello!” made his tail wag so rapidly. If I lay on the floor, he was there, head on my lap, staring up like I was the only person.
I took him on a neighborhood walk one afternoon. I thought a few blocks wouldn’t hurt since he hadn’t walked since I found him—he was too weak. I protected his sensitive ribs with a gentle harness. His wobbling was like a newborn fawn’s. When we reached the corner, he sniffed every mailbox, leaf pile, and lamppost.
A tiny child raced out from behind a parked car, pursuing a brilliant soccer ball. Mello wanted to run to welcome the kid before I stopped him. I panicked—was he okay? Would the child be scared? Mello simply wagged and licked the child’s hand. The boy laughed, petted Mello, and hurried to his yard. That moment boosted my pride. Nothing could depress this dog.
I cuddled with Mello on the couch that night. His head rested on my stomach, quietly snoring. He seems calm. It reminded me of the silent nights in my flat with only my phone screen for light. Something changed when Mello’s calm breathing became my midnight lullaby.
Raya called again a week later. “I just wanted to check on him,” she replied. “How’s Rusty—uh, Mello?”
This time she sounded happier. She smiled quietly when she heard Mello was improving. I promised her images. After hanging up, I took some photos of Mello lying on the couch, belly up, tongue hanging sideways, in complete relaxation. I saw that his coat was growing back in areas and his eyes were brighter after two weeks.
Raya responded quickly to my photos. “He looks so happy. Thank you.” Later, she said, “You saved him.”
Actually, he saved me. I was locked in a rut—work, home, mindless phone scrolling, repeat. Even my grocery excursion the day I found him was a pain. Now I had a purpose to wake up early for short walks, be present, and laugh. Every day, Mello reminded me that life is more than going through the motions.
A few days later, Mello’s X-ray showed a pellet scar near his lung. The vet suspected someone used him as a target. It made my stomach churn, but I felt purposeful instead than angry. I never understood how much this creature endured. He still loved me unconditionally, jumping into my lap whenever he could and trusting me not to injure him.
The medical bills kept coming, but I managed. I cut back on frequent coffee runs and internet purchases without resentment. I knew that skipping a nice latte helped Mello recuperate. Something about that felt more fulfilling.
One morning, I found a tiny gift at my door. A handwritten letter said, “Thank you for everything.” To give Mello (Rusty) another chance. You have no idea what that means to us. Love, Raya. A smiling sun plush toy was under the note. Mello went crazy, squeaking it like the greatest treasure.
Weeks passed, and Mello’s strength returned. He was creeping onto the couch less at night since he found a comfy spot in my bed corner. Ribs were gone, and mange was virtually gone. He had soft, spotty, developing fur.
The biggest surprise was when Raya informed me that she and her husband had moved out of her relatives’ house, found a modest pet-friendly apartment, and wanted to visit Mello. “We’re not asking to take him away,” she said hurriedly. “We miss him.”
How I felt took time to figure out. I feared Mello would return to his family. Another portion felt he was mine fully. When I thought about it, I realized that letting Mello visit his former caregivers was best for him and me.
Raya and Niles visited a few Saturdays later. The moment they entered my living room, Mello ran over, tail wagging like a helicopter blade. Two tears filled their eyes. That moment was very joyful. Also, something unexpected happened. After kissing them, Mello looked at me and pressed against my leg. The message was clear: He remembers them but chose me.
We laughed, talked, and watched Mello nibble on the noisy sun toy and fall into my lap for two hours. I offered to take him for a weekend, but they declined. Raya smiled through misty eyes, “He belongs with you now.” “We just wanted him safe and happy.”
After they went, I realized how much Mello, them, and I had healed in that room. I helped him recover, but he showed me unconditional love I’d never felt before.
Mello became a healthy, active dog in the months that followed. Even his emotional scars faded, and his limp lessened. At every turn, folks smiled and said how kind he was. I’d smile, remembering how he was that trembling wanderer by the curb, hardly holding his head up.
He was again on my lap as I looked down. Bright eyes and thick, silky fur. He looked up, breathed a large sigh of pleasure, and I wondered: how many of us are like Mello—battered by life but desperate to trust again? How many people need one person to stop, observe, and care?
My biggest lesson from Mello is that a little love and kindness may change your life too. Compassion is a gift that unites people and dogs in surprising ways.
If you liked this tale, tell someone who deserves a second chance. If you’re motivated, click “like” to share Mello’s story. We never know who may be out there—worn down, hoping for a hand, waiting to fall into the proper lap.