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How a Stray Dog Taught Me Love, loyalty, and the true Meaning of Companionship
It was the summer of 1984 when Bruno came into my life. I was 12 years old, and the streets near my house were always filled with stray dogs. Most people ignored them, sometimes shooing them away with a stick or a harsh word. But Bruno was different — or maybe I was different when I saw him.
He was just a scrawny pup back then, barely the size of a shoebox, with a patchy brown coat and soulful eyes that seemed too wise for his age. He was trembling under an old parked scooter when I first saw him. His ribs showed through his thin frame, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. I remember crouching down, extending my hand, and expecting him to run away like most strays would. But Bruno just stared at me, as if deciding whether to trust me. Slowly, cautiously, he crawled out and nudged my hand with his nose. That was it — I was hooked.
Convincing my parents to let me keep him was the first battle. My father was against it — “Stray dogs are dirty. He’ll bring fleas into the house,” he argued. But my mother softened when she saw the way Bruno followed me around, never leaving my side. So, after many pleading and promises, they agreed — provided Bruno stayed in the backyard.
Raising a street dog was nothing like having a fancy pedigree pup. Bruno didn’t know what a leash was; he hated being bathed, and he would bark at the wind. I spent months trying to train him — to sit, to stay, to walk without dragging me across the street. But it was his stubborn streak that made him so special. He wasn’t some showdog looking to impress anyone. He was Bruno — independent, protective, and fiercely loyal.
The first year was tough. He caught ticks and had a bout of mange that left patches of his fur missing. There were nights when I sat with him, rubbing ointment on his raw skin while he whimpered softly. Trips to the vet were a nightmare; he hated the clinic and would refuse to go inside. But he trusted me. Even when he was scared, he would sit beside me, trembling but obedient.
Over time, Bruno became my shadow. He would walk with me to school every morning and be waiting at the gate when I returned. He chased off the postman regularly and barked furiously at the neighbor’s cat, but to me, he was perfect. I remember coming home from a bad day at school, sitting on the floor with tears in my eyes, and Bruno would lay his head on my lap, as if to say, “It’s okay. I’m here.”
As the years passed, Bruno grew older, and so did I. His brown fur turned gray around his muzzle, and he wasn’t as quick to chase squirrels anymore. By the time I was in college, Bruno’s legs would shake when he stood up, and his once-bright eyes began to cloud. But he still wagged his tail every time I walked through the door.
The last year was the hardest. Bruno stopped eating as much, and he struggled to climb the stairs. One evening, he collapsed in the garden, unable to stand. I sat with him on the grass, stroking his head as tears rolled down my cheeks. His breathing was shallow, and I knew the time had come.
On a quiet October evening, Bruno rested his head in my lap one last time. His eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, I saw that same trust he had given me all those years ago under the scooter. He let out a soft sigh — and then he was gone.
I buried him beneath the old mango tree in our backyard, where he had loved to sit in the afternoons. Losing him felt like losing a piece of myself. Fourteen years is a lifetime, but somehow, it still didn’t feel like enough.
Even now, so many years later, I sometimes hear his bark in my dreams. I imagine him running across the fields, free and young again. Bruno taught me so much about love — unconditional, messy, and sometimes painful. But above all, he taught me about loyalty and the quiet strength of just being there.
And even though he’s gone, a part of him still walks with me. Always.
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The Author :- Sunil Dcosta
Founder and Editor