I wasn’t even going to stop. There was groceries in the back seat and my phone was at 5%. But I saw him lying on the side of the road, head barely raised, ribs visible, one ear bent as if it had been torn long ago.
He didn’t run away when I approached. He just stared at me, as if he already knew I wouldn’t hurt him. His legs shook as he tried to stand up, and I swear, as soon as I ducked down, he immediately went limp and collapsed into my lap like we’d known each other forever.
That was a fortnight ago. I named him Mello, though his vigour leaves a lot to be desired. He follows me from room to room, tries to jump into my lap when I’m working, cooking, even once when I was brushing my teeth. It doesn’t matter that his body is still healing – he needs to touch me.
The next morning I took him to the vet. He had shingles, a lung infection, two cracked ribs, and something weird on the x-ray that they couldn’t identify. They gave me medication and warned me it would be expensive. I didn’t really care. I just couldn’t keep it.
Now I sleep on the couch because he’s lower and he whimpers if I’m out of reach. I haven’t had a single night’s sleep since I brought him home, but I’m not even embarrassed by it.
What’s the weirdest part? I took him in for a checkup yesterday, and the vet asked if I had chipped him recently. I replied that I hadn’t – he was a stray. But she scanned him again and frowned.
She said: “This chip was registered two years ago. And the name on the list…is not yours.”
When I heard that, my brain started spinning. Two years ago? If he was chipped then, how did he end up on the streets, half-starved and alone? The vet gave me a printout of the contact information from the microchip registration, and I told her I’d think about whether to contact her. Part of me was afraid. What if his birth family was looking for him? What if they abandoned him? The questions were endless.
The next day, while Mello napped on my leg, I picked up my phone and dialled a number. I felt like I had a hundred butterflies fluttering in my stomach. What if someone answered, demanding the dog back?
A woman answered. Her voice sounded tired but calm. I explained who I was and how I had found a dog that matched the chip registered in her name. She was silent for a long time, and I was beginning to think the call had been cut off. Then she said quietly: ‘I lost it…a year ago.’
She introduced herself as Raya. She told me how her family had rescued Mello, whose name at the time was Rusty, when he was just a puppy. They loved him and took care of him. But then her husband lost his job and they had to move in with relatives who didn’t allow pets. They tried to find a new home for Rusty, but one night he escaped from their yard during a downpour. They looked everywhere for him but never found him.
I heard the sorrow in her voice. ‘We never stopped hoping he would be okay,’ Raya said. ‘I’m so glad you called… How is he?’
It was hard to explain how serious Mello’s condition was. I didn’t want to worry her, but I couldn’t lie to her either. She was quiet for a few seconds before she said she wasn’t able to take him back. ‘Things have gotten complicated,’ she said sadly, “and we still can’t have pets here. But… thank you for taking care of him.”
As I hung up the phone, I felt a strange mixture of relief and guilt. On the one hand, I didn’t have to say goodbye to Mello. He was mine now, for real. But on the other hand, I cringed, thinking about how much love he must have already had, how someone else was already fighting for him.
Over the next week, I noticed a new spark in Mello. He was still struggling with his injuries, and I had to carefully choose his medications to keep him comfortable. But when I called his new name – ‘Mello!’ – his tail would start wagging rapidly. If I sat down on the floor, he would immediately be beside me, put his head in my lap and look up as if I was the only person in the world.
One afternoon I decided to take him out for a short walk around the neighbourhood. He had never taken a walk since I found him – he was too weak – so I figured a couple of blocks wouldn’t hurt. I strapped him into a padded harness to protect his tender ribs. At first he wobbled like a newborn fawn. But by the time we reached the corner, he was sniffing every letterbox, leaf pile and lamppost.
Suddenly a small child ran out from behind a parked car, chasing a brightly coloured football. Before I could stop Mello, he tried to run up and greet the child. My heart snapped: would he be okay? Wouldn’t it scare the baby? But Mello only wagged his tail and licked the baby’s hand. The boy giggled, gently stroked Mello, and then ran back into his yard. At that moment, I felt a surge of pride. Nothing could break this dog’s spirit.
That night, I curled up on the couch next to Mello. He was snoring softly, resting his head on my belly. He looked so peaceful. It made me think of the countless times I’d felt alone in my flat, the quiet nights when the only light was the screen of my phone. Now Mello’s soft breathing was my nightly lullaby, and that made all the difference.
About a week later, I got another call from Raya. ‘I just wanted to check on him,’ she said. ‘How’s Rusty doing, huh, Mello?’
Her voice sounded more cheerful this time. I imagined her smiling softly when she heard that Mello was getting better. I told her I would send some pictures. After we hung up, I took a few shots of Mello stretched out on the couch, belly up, tongue hanging out to the side in total relaxation. I realised how much he had changed in just a couple of weeks: his coat was starting to grow back in patches and his eyes seemed brighter.
When I sent the photos to Raya, she responded almost immediately. “Oh my goodness, he looks so happy. Thank you.” And a moment later she added: ‘You saved him.’
But really, he saved me, too. For a while I was fixated on one pattern: go to work, come home, mindlessly flip through my phone, repeat. Even going grocery shopping the day I found him was a routine for me, something on my to-do list. Now I had a reason to get up at dawn for short walks, a reason to be present, a reason to laugh. Every day, Mello reminded me that there was more to life than just doing the usual activities.
A few days later, a strange spot on Mello’s X-ray turned out to be an old scar from a pellet lodged near his lung. Someone had probably treated him like a target, the vet said. My stomach twisted at the thought of it, but instead of anger, I felt a new sense of purpose. This dog had been through more than I could have imagined. And yet he was still capable of unconditional love – still climbing into my lap every chance he got, still trusting that I wouldn’t hurt him.
The medical bills kept piling up, but I was managing. I started cutting back on a lot of small expenses – daily trips for coffee, random online shopping – and I didn’t resent it for a second. I knew that every time I decided to give up a fancy latte, that money was going towards Mello’s recovery. And for some reason, that seemed so much more satisfying to me.
One morning when I opened the door, I discovered a small package. Inside was a handwritten note: “Thank you for all you have done. For giving Mello (Rusty) a second chance. You have no idea what that means to us. Love, Raya. Underneath the note was a small plush toy in the shape of a smiling sun. Mello went crazy over it, squeaking like it was the biggest treasure in the world.
Days passed into weeks, and Mello’s strength returned. I noticed that he was less likely to sneak onto the couch at night because he had found a cosy spot in the corner of my bed. His ribs were no longer visible and his lichen was almost completely gone. His fur was soft and patchy, but growing.
The biggest surprise was Rai telling me that she and her husband had moved away from relatives, found a small flat that allowed pets, and wanted to know if she could visit Mello. ‘We’re not asking to take him away,’ she quickly added. ‘We just…miss him.’
It took me a moment to sort out my feelings. Part of me worried that Mello would want to go back to his old family. The other part thought he was already completely mine. But upon reflection, I realised that the best thing for Mello and for me was to let him reunite with the people who had once cared for him, if only for a while.
A few Saturdays later, Raya and her husband Niles came to visit me. As soon as they crossed the threshold of my living room, Mello rushed towards them, tail wagging like a helicopter blade. There were tears in both of their eyes. There was so much joy in that moment. But something amazing also happened. After Mello showered them with a flurry of kisses, he looked back at me and pressed himself against my leg. The message was clear: he remembered them, but he chose me anyway.
We spent a couple of hours talking, laughing and watching Mello alternately chew on a squeaky sun toy and plop into my lap. I offered to let them take him for the weekend, but they shook their heads. ‘He belongs to you now,’ Raya said, smiling through watery eyes. ‘We just wanted to know he was safe and happy.’
When they left, I realised how much healing had happened in that room – for Mello, for them and for me. I had helped him heal, but he had also shown me unconditional love that I had never experienced before.
In the months that followed, Mello grew into a healthy, energetic dog. His limp became less noticeable, and his scars – even the emotional ones – seemed to fade. Everywhere I went, people smiled at him and told me how friendly he was. I only smirked, remembering how he had once been a shivering hobo on the side of the road, barely able to hold his head up.
One day I looked down and saw him stretched out in my lap again. His fur was thick and shiny and his eyes were bright. He lifted his head, sighed contentedly, and it hit me: how many of us have been like Mello at some point – broken by life, but desperate to trust again? How many of us need just one person to stop, notice us, and care?
The biggest lesson I have learnt from Mello’s life is this: sometimes giving a little love and kindness can change not only another life, but also your own. Compassion is not an obligation, it’s a gift that brings people (and dogs) together in the most unexpected ways.
If you enjoyed this story, please share it with others who need a reminder that second chances are real. And if you’re feeling inspired, click the ‘Like’ button to let more people know about Mello’s journey. We never know who might be out there – exhausted, hoping for an outstretched hand – and just waiting to collapse into the lap of the right person.
