Yesterday was sweltering—the kind of heat where the air feels thick and the pavement burns underfoot. All I wanted was to get home and switch on the fan, but first, I needed to pop into the supermarket for dinner.
As I walked through the car park, squinting against the sun, something caught my attention. A German Shepherd sat panting inside a locked car, windows fogged from the stifling heat. My stomach dropped. The dog’s tongue lolled, its eyes glazed—clearly in distress. If it was 30 degrees outside, the car must’ve been an oven.
A note on the windscreen listed a phone number. I called. A man answered, and I kept my voice steady. “Your dog’s overheating—please come back now or at least open a window!” His reply was icy. “I left water. Mind your own business.”
Water? In a sealed bottle. Useless. Rage boiled inside me. How was the dog supposed to drink that? I couldn’t wait. Grabbing a nearby rock, I smashed the window. Glass shattered, the alarm wailed, but I didn’t care.
I pulled the dog out onto the tarmac. It collapsed, gasping, but soon steadied. I doused it with water and called for help.
Minutes later, the “owner” stormed over, face twisted in fury. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing? I’ll call the police!”
He did. But when they arrived, something unexpected happened.
They listened, saw the dog’s state, and sided with me. He got fined, charged with animal cruelty—they even thanked me.
And the dog?
Now it’s curled at my feet, safe and loved. That same German Shepherd, nearly dead yesterday because of someone’s neglect, sleeps soundly now. And I’d smash that window again in a heartbeat.
Some people don’t understand—animals aren’t toys. They’re living things, just like us. They deserve better.
