The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. It was that relentless, soaking kind of weather that turns forest paths into slick mud slides and makes you question why you ever left the house. I was taking a shortcut through the older part of the woods, a route I rarely used because of the steep, rocky ravines that sliced through the terrain.
I almost missed it. The sound was so faint, swallowed instantly by the drumming of rain on leaves and the rushing water in the gullies below. It wasn’t a bird; it was too guttural, too desperate. I stopped, holding my breath, straining to hear over the storm. There it was again—a high-pitched, broken wail that sounded painfully human in its misery.
I followed the sound off the path, sliding down a muddy embankment toward a narrow fissure in the rock face. The moss here was thick, slick with water, covering everything in a vibrant, slippery green.
Tucked away in a deep, dark crevice, almost invisible against the wet stone and earth, was the source of the crying. It was a puppy, but barely recognizable as one. It was unimaginably small, its body fragile and practically hairless, its skin a pale pinkish-grey that looked raw from the cold. It was soaked through, shivering so violently that its entire tiny frame vibrated against the moss.
It had clearly jammed itself into the deepest part of the hollow, hiding from prying eyes, perhaps instinctively knowing how vulnerable it was. When I leaned over, it tried to retreat further, letting out another terrified squeak. Its eyes were wide, dark pools of pure panic, tear-stained and fixed on me.
Getting to her—I realized it was a she—wasn’t easy. The ravine was steep, and the rocks were treacherous. I had to anchor myself with one hand on a root and stretch the other down into the crevice.
As my fingers brushed her skin, I gasped. She was colder than the stone she was lying on. She felt like ice. She didn’t bite; she was past the point of fighting. She just froze, her massive eyes locked onto mine as I gently curled my fingers around her tiny ribcage. She weighed nothing. It felt like holding a wet, shivering bird.
I knew immediately that she was in trouble. This wasn’t just cold; this was profound hypothermia. I unzipped my waterproof jacket and tucked her directly against my chest, wrapping the fabric tightly around us both. Her shivering was intense against my skin, a frantic drumming heartbeat the only sign of life.
The hike back to my car was a blur of adrenaline and worry. I kept one hand pressed flat against her, willing my body heat into hers. Every few minutes, I’d check down. Her eyes remained open, staring blankly, too exhausted to even close them.
It wasn’t until I had the car heater blasting and had wrapped her in an emergency blanket from my trunk that the violent shivering finally began to subside into small tremors. And then, a small miracle. As the warmth began to seep into her bones, she let out a soft, deep sigh and nestled her tiny, alien-looking head into the crook of my arm.
Looking at her there, a tiny speck of life pulled from the cold earth, I realized how close she had come to being just another part of the forest floor. It was pure chance that I took that route, pure luck that I heard her cry over the storm. She was fragile, yes, but she was also a fighter. And she wasn’t hiding anymore.