One morning, while I was out walking this big heart on four legs, he suddenly stopped at the foot of a bush. Normally, he pulls on the leash to run, sniff, explore. But this time, he froze. His gaze locked in place, ears standing tall. And then, very slowly, he moved closer.
Three tiny bundles were trembling beneath the leaves. Thin. Dirty. Abandoned.
They were only a few weeks old—two gingers and a tabby—huddled together, clinging to each other to survive the night. There was no mother. Nothing. Just them. Fragile. Alone. Silent.
I wanted to pick them up, to place them gently in a box. But my dog—this big, often clumsy giant—lay down on the ground instead, resting his muzzle beside them. He didn’t growl. He didn’t fidget. He simply lay there, as if he understood that they needed warmth, calm, protection.
That day, I didn’t make a decision.
He made it for me.
Since then, they never leave his side. They sleep curled against him, hide between his legs, climb onto his back like a...