“You want to put him to sleep?” I asked, my voice edged with disbelief.
“Yes,” the elderly woman replied calmly. “I don’t need him.”
The small puppy tugged at the hem of my coat with his sharp little teeth. His bright, glossy eyes showed no fear—of the unfamiliar smells in the room, the man in the white coat, or even of his own owner, who had chosen to get rid of him in the most definitive way.
“But he’s not sick or aggressive,” I tried to reason with her.
“So what? I don’t want him,” she answered flatly.
The puppy’s real problem lay deeper. He was a mutt—no pedigree, no elegance. At six months old, all puppies look a bit awkward, still transitioning from baby features. But this one, sold as a Brussels Griffon at the market, had grown far beyond the average size.
Though some features of the Griffon were vaguely present, his size was closer to a medium Schnauzer. A strong jaw and an underbite gave him a Boxer-like appearance, while one ear stood up and the other flopped down like a German Shepherd. His wiry fur shot off in every direction, adding to his disheveled look. If there were a contest for the world’s ugliest dog, he’d easily make the top five.
“I wanted a small dog,” the woman kept complaining, clearly offended. “Instead, they gave me this little monster.”
I replied bitterly, “Purebred dogs aren’t bought at a street market.”
“Exactly! Do you know how much breeders charge?” she snapped.
“I do,” I muttered, annoyed.
Three options ran through my mind. The first was tempting—pour a bottle of Galles green dye on her and face the fallout with the clinic and the police. The second was a direct refusal, firm and cold: tell her we don’t euthanize healthy animals. But that would likely result in the dog being abandoned or taken to another vet, with dangerous consequences in the freezing January weather.
The third option, the hardest but most humane, was to contact a shelter and try to find the pup a new home.
With a sigh, I called my friend Svetlana, who ran a local rescue.
“Hey Svet, any chance you could find a home for this little guy? Male, six months, looks like a bulldog-terrier mix. He’s as ugly as I am after an overnight shift, but he’s kind.”
I sent her a photo and asked if she could host him, even though she was already at full capacity. “He’ll stay with me for now, but let me know soon. The clinic director’s not thrilled about this.”
Hanging up, I caught the woman’s skeptical gaze. I knew she wouldn’t let go that easily—I needed to play this carefully.
“Here’s the thing,” I said, voice cold as the icy streets outside. “I can’t put him down. And with it being the holiday season, our euthanasia rates are doubled. On top of that, you’ll pay for body retrieval, cremation, and refrigeration. The pet hearse won’t come until Monday. It’s New Year’s, after all.”
“That’s ridiculous!” she snapped, face twisted in anger.
“I agree. Ridiculous,” I said with a shrug. “But I don’t make the prices. To save yourself some money, I suggest you sign a release form. I’ll transfer the dog to a shelter where someone might actually want him.”
“Someone would want that?” she asked, wide-eyed.
“Who knows,” I said with a hint of intrigue. “Maybe he’s a rare breed. Could be worth something.”
I resisted the urge to toss Galles green dye in her face. Keep calm, I reminded myself. You’re a professional. No theatrics with clients.
“You could always resell him at the market,” I offered. “Did you vaccinate him?”
“Vaccinate?” she blinked, clearly confused.
She had no idea that I wanted to save the pup out of pure compassion—she was convinced I was hiding some profit angle.
“I have to pay for shots too? I can’t sell him without them?”
“Try and see,” I replied coldly. “But if they catch you, you’ll face fines.”
With a huff, she removed his collar, stuffed it in her bag, and shoved the dog toward me.
“Take him. He’s already ruined all my furniture. What do I have to sign?”
I took another photo of the pup and sent it to Svetlana, who promised to post it on the shelter’s website immediately. I fed him and tucked him into a kennel. No other clients came in. I sat by the front door, humming—a habit of mine when sadness hits.
“The dawn is misty, the dawn is gray…” I sang in my deep baritone.
“Woof!” barked the kennel.
“You sing too?” I laughed. “I’ll call you Miracle. Let’s do a duet.”
We sang “Morning,” then “Black Raven,” and even “I Ride Out to the Field with My Horse.” We made such a good duo that I didn’t hear the door open until the applause startled me.
“Bravo! Bravo!” chuckled a lean, older man as he stepped inside. It was Alexander Ivanovich—my friend, a doctor, and one of my long-time clients. Everyone called him Shurik.
“You scared me, Shurik!” I said.
“No, you scared me! I was passing by and heard that howling. Thought you were losing it. I came to check if you needed psychiatric help.”
“Oh, I do. Can you foster a little furball for a few days? The shelter’s full.”
“I should say no, you know that. After Mukhtar died…”
Mukhtar had passed away the year before, leaving a huge hole in Shurik’s heart. But this puppy needed a temporary home, so I pleaded:
“Just a few days. He’s like a patient waiting for a hospital bed.”
“Don’t mention hospital beds… I’ve got enough stress. What kind of dog is that, anyway? He’s hideous.”
“Very rare breed. Still unnamed. Someone brought him in to be euthanized.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No. He’s with me now.”
“You’re a good man, Aybolit.”
“Not that good. I nearly poured acid on the woman.”
“Green Galles? You’re insane. Fine, I’ll take him for a few days. What’s his name?”
“Miracle. But feel free to change it.”
“Why? It suits him. Got a harness?”
“We’ll figure something out. The owner took everything.”
“Of course. All right, let’s get him home—but just for a week. Call me when the shelter has room.”
A few days later, I called Shurik.
“You know what?” he said, amused. “Forget the shelter. I’m keeping him. We do concerts at night! My wife’s laughing again for the first time since Mukhtar passed. He’s ugly but funny. Brings my slippers, dances, understands everything! He destroyed a stool or two, but so what? The grandkids now come every day instead of once a month. Thank you, my friend.”
I hung up and looked out the window. Snow drifted gently past the glass. Christmas lights glowed softly outside.
Miracles happen when you least expect them.
A puppy saved. Shurik smiling again. And me, a humble vet, just a bridge between two crossed destinies. Everything had worked out perfectly.
The clinic phone rang. My assistant Mila picked up.
“Veterinary Clinic, good morning. Yes, we’re open today. Of course, bring him in. No, I can’t say over the phone—we’ll evaluate him here.”
I turned away from the snowy window and looked at Mila.
“Hit by a car. Dog. Suspected fracture.”
“Prep the surgery room, Mila,” I said. “It’s a good day. Let’s do our best.”
