The scorching sun beat down on the quiet streets of Bristol, the pavement sizzling underfoot. All I wanted was to escape the stifling heat, duck into my flat, and switch on the fan. But first—a quick stop at the Tesco for dinner.
As I crossed the car park, something caught my attention—a movement, a muffled whimper. I turned and saw her. A border collie, trapped inside a sweltering car, panting desperately. My stomach twisted. The windows were fogged with condensation; the poor thing was dazed, tongue lolling, eyes unfocused. If it was 30 degrees outside, inside that metal coffin had to be twice as bad.
A note with a phone number was taped to the windshield. I dialled. A man answered, his voice clipped.
“Your dog’s overheating,” I urged. “You need to come back—now!”
“I left water,” he scoffed. “Mind your own business.”
Water? An unopened bottle, useless behind locked doors. My hands trembled with rage. How the hell was she supposed to drink that? Without hesitation, I grabbed a rock and smashed the window. Glass shattered, alarms blared—but all I cared about was the dog.
I hauled her out onto the tarmac. She crumpled onto her side, gasping, but the moment fresh air hit her, she weakly thumped her tail. I doused her with my water bottle, calling for help.
Minutes later, the so-called owner stormed up, face flushed with fury.
“What the hell d’you think you’re doing? I’ll have the police on you!”
And he did. But when officers arrived, something unexpected happened.
Turned out, I wasn’t the one in trouble. After hearing both sides, they fined him for animal cruelty—gave *me* a nod of thanks instead.
And the dog?
She’s mine now. A happy, spoiled shadow curled at my feet. That same collie who nearly died because of one man’s negligence now snores softly beside me. And I’d shatter that window again in a heartbeat.
People who treat animals like disposable things—I’ll never understand it. They’re not toys. They’re family.
