Yegor came to the veterinary clinic, carrying a cat carrier in his hands. The line had been going on for more than half an hour — it seemed the clinic was especially busy that day.
On the chair next to him sat a woman with a carrier containing a British Shorthair cat. The cat behaved so quietly that one could almost think it wasn’t there at all.
“What’s wrong with him?” Yegor couldn’t help but ask.
“He injured his paw,” the woman replied briefly.
“Well, that’s fixable,” he nodded, shifting his gaze to the far corner where a dog was sitting on the floor, hunched over, with eyes full of sadness. The dog barely moved, although its owner — a large man with a ruddy face — had even removed the leash.
There was something elusive in those eyes, something beyond explanation, yet chillingly clear. A feeling of hopelessness… no, something deeper — resignation. That was the word that flashed through Yegor’s mind as he looked again in that direction.
Finally, it was Yegor’s turn. He took the carrier and went into the office. While the veterinarian was giving Marsik the injection, Yegor looked around at the walls, decorated with posters about proper animal care.
“Is that one still just sitting there?” the vet suddenly asked.
“Who?” Yegor replied, surprised.
“Well, the dog… the one they brought to be euthanized.”
“Wait, are you serious? That dog in the corner — to be put down?!”
“Yes. They’ve come twice already. The first time, they managed to convince the owner to change his mind, but he came back. He says he doesn’t have time, has to work, and the dog gets in the way. Though the dog is only four years old — he just grew big. Still young, it’s a pity… But the owner is stubborn, sitting here since morning waiting.”
Yegor felt his insides turn upside down. So that’s why the dog’s eyes showed resignation. He senses why he was brought here. And has accepted his fate. He just lay down and waits for the end. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t resist. Has resigned himself.
“All done, your cat is ready. Don’t forget, he still needs another vaccination,” the vet said, returning Marsik to him.
“Yes, yes… of course, I’ll come,” Yegor muttered, putting the cat back in the carrier. Marsik curled up as usual, as if nothing had happened.
Yegor, barely feeling his legs under him, rushed out of the office and headed straight for the man with the dog.
“Give him to me!”
“Who?” the man looked confused.
“That dog. You said you didn’t want him. So give him to me!”
The dog, who had been lying motionless all this time, suddenly lifted his head and even wagged his tail slightly.
“Well, take him then… if you insist,” the man grumbled, shoved the leash into Yegor’s hands, and hurried away as if afraid he would change his mind.
“What’s his name?” Yegor called after him.
“Jack!” came the reply before the door slammed shut.
At that moment, the dog stood up and a wild spark of hope lit up in his eyes. He looked at Yegor as if asking, “Really? This isn’t a dream? You’re really taking me with you?”
Yegor put Marsik’s carrier down on the floor, hugged Jack by the neck, and whispered:
“Well, Jack… we’re going to live. Let’s go home. I’ll introduce you to someone. Just please don’t hurt Marsik — he’s gentle, you two have to become friends. It’s important.”
Jack said nothing, only pressed his warm, wet nose against his new owner’s cheek. Yegor wiped away a tear, attached the leash to the collar, and stood up.
“Let’s go home, guys. Someone’s already waiting for us. Marina’s probably worried, and we’ve been delayed here. Don’t be afraid, Jack, she’s kind. Things will be different now, I promise.”
And they walked out — a man with a carrier and a big, fluffy dog named Jack.
Now, I see them occasionally on their walks. Only the cat stayed home, but the three of them go out together — Yegor, Marina, and Jack. Jack has changed a bit: maybe he grew, or maybe just got healthier. His fur is thick and shiny. But the most important thing — his eyes. Now they hold true happiness. Because he has a person. Or better yet — two people of his own. And he is no longer alone.
