The wolf stood directly in front of the hood. In shock, I slammed the windows shut, my heart pounding as if it would leap out of my chest.
But contrary to all my expectations, it did not run — it slowly lowered itself to the ground right in front of the car. I looked closer and saw blood on its side: a wound from which dark fluid oozed.
For a long time, I didn’t know what to do. Logic told me to drive away and call someone; safety demanded distance.
Finally, carefully putting the car in reverse, I backed up to go around it. But the wolf, gathering its last strength, once again positioned itself across the road, as if trying to tell me something.
In its gaze there was no threat — only a plea.
My heart clenched. Suddenly, from the grass at the roadside, tiny puppies ran out and rushed to their mother, squealing and hiding between her paws.
Everything — work, deadlines, morning duties — faded into the background. I dialed 911, and with a trembling voice, I asked for help, not for myself, but for the injured animal.
At that moment, nothing seemed more important than saving the she-wolf and her pups.