The Life of Rusty: A Stray Dog's Tale

I can't recall when it all began—being alone. Maybe I had a family once, but the recollection is hazy, like the aroma of a distant dinner I can no longer grasp. They nicknamed me "Rusty," according to a nice woman I once met. She handed me a half-eaten sandwich near the market before disappearing. I like the name. It made me feel like I existed and mattered, even for a time.  

I've lived on the streets for as long as I can remember. They're noisy, dangerous, and merciless. Every day is a battle for survival. Cold concrete under my claws, jagged gravel that wounds, and always food. I fantasize about this when I'm curled up in a corner under broken crates or under a damaged cardboard box. I sniff garbage cans as if they contained jewels because, to me, they do. If I'm lucky, I locate leftovers; otherwise, I just keep going. Hunger is a constant, like the rumbling thunder before a storm.

However, winter is the most difficult season. My fur, once bright and immaculate, now provides nothing to protect me from the stinging cold. I shiver through the night, curled up as tight as I can, my nose buried in my tail. On evenings like this, I dream. I am dreaming of warmth. I dream of warm hands scratching behind my ears, a kind voice calling my name, and the aroma of fresh food filling my stomach before I ever take a mouthful.

One day, everything changed. 

It was raining—cold, constant rain. My coat adhered to my flesh, and I hobbled due to a gash on my paw. I had given up on finding refuge when I noticed it—a little porch with a flickering light. I snuck into a corner, hoping no one would spot me. My eyes were weary, and I slept asleep to the sound of rainfall.

When I awoke, I heard a calm voice, almost like music. "Hello, little guy. "You must be freezing."  

I flinched, my instinct screaming to flee. However, my legs were feeble. I looked up and saw her: a woman with kind eyes, kneeling just far enough away not to alarm me. She extended her hand—no stick, no rock, just her hand—and within it was something that smelt like heaven: food. I paused, looking at her and then at the meal. Hunger won.

"See? "It's fine," she said quietly, her voice warm like the sun I'd been missing for days.

She stayed with me for the next three hours, never rushing and speaking slowly. Eventually, I let her touch me. Her hands were kind, and for the first time in years, I felt no fear. She scooped me up and brought me inside her house.  

I expected it to be a trap. It wasn’t. Instead, it was warmth—real, glorious warmth. A towel dried me, food filled my belly, and I fell asleep on the softest blanket I’d ever felt. When I woke up, I wasn’t alone.  

There were others—two little humans who squealed in joy when they saw me. “Can we keep him, Mom? Please?” they begged. 

I wasn't sure what "keep" meant, but it sounded good. The woman smiled and patted my head. "He isn't simply a stray anymore. This is Rusty, and he's joined our family."

Family. The term seemed both exotic and familiar as if it was something I'd been looking for all along. Days passed into weeks, and my life altered. My fur became thicker and cleaner again. My stomach was no longer pained, and my heart was no longer afraid. The small humans became my dearest pals, playing with me, hugging me, and whispering secrets in my ear.  

Every night, I cuddle up in my bed beside the fireplace, the gentle crackling sound lulling me to sleep. I'm dreaming now, but not of hunger or cold. I fantasise about racing over broad fields, laughing, and coming home.

Because I am Rusty, and I am no longer a stray. I am adored. I feel like I fit in. For a dog like me, that means everything.