It was the kind of summer heat that makes the pavement shimmer. I only meant to grab pasta and sauce, but in the supermarket lot, I spotted a silver sedan parked in full sun.
Inside, a German Shepherd lay slumped in the backseat, panting weakly. No shade, no cracked windows—just a suffocating metal box. A note on the windshield read: “Back soon. Dog has water. Don’t touch the car.” A number was scribbled underneath.
I called. The man answered at once.
“Your dog is overheating,” I said. “It’s over 30 degrees Celsius—come now.”
He sighed. “I left her water. She’ll be fine.”
But there was only a sealed bottle in the front seat. My hands shook. A passerby muttered, “Poor dog,” and walked on. That’s when I grabbed a rock and smashed the window.
The alarm blared as I pulled her out. She collapsed, panting, but wagged faintly when I poured water over her. Strangers gathered. Animal control arrived just as the furious owner stormed up.
“This dog had minutes left,” the officer said, taking him away.
The Shepherd’s eyes met mine. She understood: she was safe.
