Every evening after work, I’d take the same path home — a quiet stretch of road with a few trees, old fences, and silence that wrapped around the evening light. And every day, just before the last turn, I’d see him.
He was always there — a skinny, scruffy stray dog with intelligent eyes and a cautious tail wag. He never came too close, but he watched me. If I paused, he’d perk up. If I greeted him, his tail would thump against the dirt. I started bringing bits of food — a sandwich crust, leftover rice, sometimes a boiled egg. Every day, he waited. And every day, I stopped.
We didn’t speak the same language, but something passed between us — a kind of quiet friendship. I named him Bruno in my mind. It took a week before he let me touch his head. His fur was matted, his ribs were visible, and he flinched if I moved too quickly. I wondered what kind of life had led him to this place, alone but still hopeful.
One rainy evening, he wasn’t there. I waited, heart sinking. The next day, still no Bruno. Then, on the third day, I heard a soft whine from behind a dumpster. There he was, soaked and shivering, with a gash on his hind leg. Without thinking twice, I scooped him up and took him home.
The vet said he’d be okay — just weak, underfed, and scared. But Bruno was a fighter.
It’s been six months since then. Bruno now sleeps at the foot of my bed, plays in the yard like a pup, and greets me at the door with the same wagging tail — only this time, in a place he knows is safe.
He waited for me every day. And when the time came, I was there for him too.
Credit ~Respected owner