As two abandoned dogs, This puppy and I wander the streets searching for food, feeling unloved and starving after days of hunger
The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows over the narrow streets. The air is thick with the smell of the city—faint traces of food, dust, and something stale. It’s been days since I’ve had a real meal, and my body feels weak, the hunger gnawing at me like an invisible predator that never lets go. But I’m not alone in this misery. Beside me, a small puppy stumbles along, just as hungry and lost as I am. His little legs struggle to keep up, but he doesn’t complain. We are two abandoned souls, wandering the streets with no destination, no hope, and no one to care whether we live or die.
I don’t know where the puppy came from or how he found me. One morning, I woke up to find him curled up beside me in the alley where I’d slept. At first, I wasn’t sure what to do. I had barely enough energy to survive on my own, let alone take care of someone else. But when I looked into his wide, innocent eyes, I saw something I hadn’t felt in a long time—a flicker of connection, a tiny glimmer of hope. He was just as abandoned as I was, just as lost, and somehow, we both knew that the only way we could make it was if we stuck together.
The puppy and I walk side by side now, our noses close to the ground, searching for any trace of food. The streets are unforgiving, and most of the trash bins are empty. Occasionally, we find a stale piece of bread or a discarded bone, but it’s never enough. My ribs are visible beneath my fur, and the puppy, though younger, is already beginning to show the same signs of starvation. His once soft fur is matted and dull, and his tiny belly, once round, is now sunken. I feel a pang of guilt every time I look at him. I wish I could do more, find more, give him more. But there’s nothing out here for us.
We pass by people sometimes—humans who are busy with their lives, rushing past us with bags of groceries, cups of coffee, and shoes that click against the pavement. They don’t see us, or if they do, they look away. To them, we are just stray dogs, an inconvenience, a reminder of something they’d rather not think about. I’ve learned not to expect kindness from them. It’s been too long since anyone reached out a hand to help. But I still wonder what it would be like to be noticed, to have someone stop and offer us food or a place to rest. I wonder if the puppy has ever known kindness. He seems so young, so fragile, and yet already so resigned to this life of hardship.
As we walk, I catch the scent of something in the distance. It’s faint, but familiar. Food. My heart quickens, and I nudge the puppy with my nose, urging him to follow. He perks up, his tiny body suddenly filled with a burst of energy. Together, we move toward the smell, our stomachs rumbling in anticipation. But when we reach the source, disappointment floods over me. It’s just a pile of discarded wrappers and empty cans. Whatever food had been here is long gone, leaving only the faintest trace behind. The puppy sniffs around, hopeful, but there’s nothing. I watch as his tail droops and his eyes lose their spark.
I hate seeing him like this. I hate feeling so powerless. I want to tell him that things will get better, that we’ll find food soon, that we’ll make it through this. But I can’t lie to him. I’ve been out here long enough to know that life on the streets doesn’t get easier. If anything, it gets harder. The longer we go without food, the weaker we become, and the more difficult it is to survive. The hunger isn’t just in our bellies anymore—it’s in our bones, in our minds, clouding everything with a dull, aching pain that never goes away.
As night falls, we find a small corner near an abandoned building to rest. It’s not much, but it offers some shelter from the cold wind that sweeps through the streets after the sun sets. The puppy curls up beside me, his body pressed close to mine for warmth. I can feel him shivering, his tiny frame trembling with both the cold and the exhaustion of the day. I drape a paw over him, trying to offer some comfort, but it feels like such a small gesture compared to the weight of our situation. We’re both starving, both tired, and both wondering how much longer we can keep going like this.
In the quiet of the night, I listen to the sounds of the city around us—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional shout of a human, the rustle of leaves in the wind. It feels like the world has forgotten about us, as if we don’t exist. And maybe we don’t, not in the way that matters. We are invisible to the people who walk past, unseen in the eyes of those who could help. But here, in this little corner, we exist to each other. The puppy and I are a small, fragile unit, clinging to each other in a world that has turned its back on us.
I think about what might have been if things were different. If we had homes, families, someone to care for us. I imagine the puppy running through a yard, his tail wagging, his belly full, his eyes bright with joy. I picture myself lying in the sun, my coat clean, my heart content. It’s a nice dream, but it’s just that—a dream. The reality is that we’re out here, on the streets, with no one to look after us, no one to love us. And every day, we grow a little weaker, a little more desperate.
But even in the midst of all this, there’s something that keeps us going. Maybe it’s the hope that tomorrow will be better, or maybe it’s just the instinct to survive. Whatever it is, the puppy and I will wake up again tomorrow, and we’ll continue our search. We’ll wander the streets, sniffing for food, hoping for kindness, and trying to keep each other alive. It’s a hard life, and it’s getting harder by the day. But as long as we have each other, we’ll keep moving forward. We don’t have much, but we have that. And for now, it’s enough to keep us going.
