He did not know what he did wrong.
He only knew his body felt strange.
The smell was thick, sharp, and scary.
It clung to his fur like a bad dream that would not stop.
His whole coat was bright green, and it wasn’t just ugly, it felt like poison sitting on his skin.
He stood near the road in Petaling Jaya, Malaysia, trying to stay on his feet while his head spun in circles.
Cars passed like loud monsters.
He flinched at every sound.
His stomach was empty, and the hunger mixed with sickness until he felt like throwing up.
He tried to lick his fur.
The taste burned his tongue.
He coughed and gagged, then backed away from his own smell like he was afraid of himself.
His eyes were glassy and tired.
He looked lifeless because he felt lifeless.
He wanted water more than anything, but even walking felt too hard.
His spirit felt shattered inside.
He sat down slowly, like an old dog, even though he was still young.
His chest moved fast as he tried to breathe.
The paint fumes crawled into his nose and throat, making every breath feel heavy and wrong.
He stared at the ground and waited, because when a stray has no strength left, waiting is sometimes all they can do.
The sun moved higher, but he did not move much.
Heat pressed down on his back.
Flies circled him like tiny cruel shadows.
People walked by, and he watched their feet, hoping one pair would stop and help.
Most did not.
Some looked for a second and turned away, like seeing him hurt their eyes.
He did not understand that.
He was not trying to scare anyone.
He was just a sweet soul who had been hurt.
His belly cramped and growled.
He sniffed the air for food.
Nothing came.
He searched the ground for scraps, but there was only dust and small rocks that scraped his paws.
He took a few steps and stumbled.
The road seemed to tilt.
He blinked hard and tried to focus, but the world stayed blurry.
He felt weak, like the poison was draining him drop by drop.
He wondered if this was how it ended for him.
A lonely dog, painted like a joke, dying quietly where nobody cared.
Then he heard a soft voice.
It was not angry.
It was not loud.
It was gentle and worried, like a mother calling a child.
He lifted his head slowly.
A woman stood there, frozen in shock.
Her hands covered her mouth.
Her eyes filled with tears.
In that moment, he felt seen.
The woman’s name was Shazreen Othuman, but the dog did not know names.
He only knew her face looked different from the cruel faces.
She crouched down slowly, keeping space between them, because she understood fear.
He backed away at first.
His body remembered danger.
But her voice stayed soft, even when he moved away.
She did not chase him.
She did not grab.
She just spoke, like she was telling him, “You are safe now.”
He wanted to believe her, but trust was a broken thing for him.
Still, he paused.
Still, he listened.
And in his tired heart, a small spark flickered.
Shazreen pulled out her phone.
She looked at him again and again, her face full of heartbreak and anger.
She began posting online right away, begging people for help, begging someone to come before it was too late.
The dog did not understand the phone, but he understood the urgency.
He understood she was fighting for him.
He stood there shaking, dizzy, and silent, while she worked.
Minutes felt like hours.
His legs trembled.
His mouth went dry.
He lowered his body closer to the ground because standing was painful now.
He did not want to collapse, but his body was losing the battle.
Shazreen stayed near, speaking softly, watching him like he was precious.
He looked at her and blinked slowly.
It was his quiet way of saying, “Please.”
Not long after, help came.
A volunteer arrived with a towel and water, moving slowly like they did not want to scare him.
The dog tried to stand strong, but his body wobbled again.
The volunteer held out water first.
He sniffed it.
Then he drank like his life depended on it.
Because it did.
Cold water slid down his throat, and he almost cried from relief.
Then the volunteer wrapped the towel around him carefully.
He froze.
Being touched was scary.
But the towel felt warm, not violent.
Hands held him gently, not like the ones that hurt him.
He still trembled, but he did not bite.
He did not growl.
He just surrendered, because he had no strength left to fight.
He was lifted off the ground, and his heart raced, yet the arms holding him were steady and kind.
For a stray dog, being carried felt like something that only happened in dreams.
The world moved fast as they took him away from the road.
He looked back once.
Shazreen was still there, watching him go, her eyes still wet, her mouth tight with pain.
He did not know how, but he knew she had saved him.
He was no longer invisible.
The ride was quiet.
The dog lay down, breathing hard, while the city noise faded behind him.
He still smelled the paint.
He still felt the burning.
But now he also smelled something new.
Soap.
Warm air.
Human care.
They brought him to a safe place, where clean water waited, and the volunteer spoke softly as they prepared the bath.
The first touch of water made him flinch.
He thought it might sting more.
But then the water kept flowing, and it started washing away the poison smell bit by bit.
Green paint ran down like dirty tears.
He watched it fall off his body, and it felt like his shame was leaving too.
The volunteer scrubbed gently, especially around his face, careful not to hurt his eyes.
The dog blinked and swallowed, trying to understand why someone would be kind after someone had been cruel.
Soap covered his fur, and the volunteer kept talking in a soothing voice, like a lullaby.
The dog’s shaking slowly eased.
His breathing became calmer.
For the first time in a long time, he felt clean.
Not just on the outside.
But inside too.
He wasn’t just a stray anymore.
He was a dog being helped.
He was a sweet soul being protected.
After the bath, they wrapped him again in a warm towel.
He looked smaller without the bright paint.
He looked like a normal dog again.
A normal dog who deserved love.
They gave him food.
He ate fast at first, like it might vanish.
Then he slowed down as he realized nobody was taking it away.
He licked the bowl clean.
Then he lifted his eyes toward the humans.
His eyes were still tired, but now they held something else too.
Hope.
The rescuers checked him closely.
They knew paint fumes can hurt the lungs.
They knew he was dizzy for a reason.
They whispered about how close it was, how the toxic exposure could have killed him if they found him later.
That thought made their faces dark with anger.
They began talking about justice.
They began talking about finding the people who did this.
The dog did not understand prison.
He did not understand laws.
But he understood the tone.
He understood they were on his side.
That the world might punish cruelty, even if it happened too late for many animals.
He rested his head down, still wrapped in warmth, and his eyes slowly closed.
His body softened into sleep.
Not the scared sleep of the street.
But real sleep.
Safe sleep.
In a place where no one would paint him like trash.
In a place where gentle hands would stay gentle.
The next days would not be easy.
His lungs still needed time.
His body still needed strength.
But he had something he never had before.
People.
People who cared.
People who fought for him.
And deep inside, under the tired bones and the bruised heart, a small brave thought began to grow.
Maybe life could be kind.
Maybe this sweet soul could still have a home.
Maybe his shattered heart could heal.