Yesterday was scorching hot. The air hung heavy, the pavement simmered underfoot, and all I wanted was to get home and switch on the fan. But first, I needed to pop into the supermarket to grab something for dinner.
As I walked across the car park, squinting against the glare, something caught my attention. I turned—and there she was. A German Shepherd, trapped inside a locked car, panting desperately. My stomach dropped. The windows were fogged from the heat, the dog’s tongue lolled, her eyes glazed over. She was on the brink. If it was 30°C outside, the car was an oven.
A note on the windscreen listed a phone number. I rang it. A man answered, and I tried to stay calm. “Your dog’s overheating—come back now or at least open a window!” His reply was icy. “I left water. Mind your own business.”
I spotted the water—sealed in a bottle. Fury burned through me. How was the dog supposed to drink that? I couldn’t wait. Grabbing a loose brick, I smashed the window. Glass shattered, the alarm blared—I didn’t care.
I pulled the dog out. She collapsed on the tarmac, gulping air but already looking better. I doused her with water and called for help.
Minutes later, the “owner” stormed over, face twisted with rage. “What the hell have you done? I’m calling the police!”
When officers arrived, the unexpected happened. After hearing both sides and seeing the dog’s state, they sided with me. He was fined and charged with animal cruelty. One officer shook my hand. “Good job,” he said.
And the dog?
She’s mine now. A happy, healthy ball of loyalty, curled at my feet as I write this. I’d smash that window again in a heartbeat.
Some people treat pets like objects, forgetting they’re living, feeling beings. But responsibility isn’t optional—it’s the bare minimum we owe them.
