Until My Last Treat

Rocco's Point of View Before I became Rocco, I didn't have a name. The city never bothered giving one to dogs like me. To the people walking past, I was "that stray dog." To the security guards, I was "Shoo!" To children, I was either someone to wave at or someone their parents pulled them away from. But to myself... I was simply trying to survive until tomorrow. I don't remember much about my mother anymore. Time has a funny way of stealing memories. The older I became, the harder it was to remember the warmth of her body or the sound of my brothers and sisters sleeping beside me. Sometimes I thought I could still hear them in my dreams, tiny paws scratching against the ground as we fought over milk. Then I would wake up alone beneath a rusty tricycle or behind a pile of cardboard boxes, and I would remember that dreams never lasted very long. The city was my family now. It taught me lessons no one ever wanted to learn. Wake up before the streets become busy. Never trust moving tires. Avoid the market after the vendors start cleaning because they chase hungry dogs away. If another stray growls over a piece of food... Walk away. Food isn't worth dying for. Every day began with my nose. Humans think dogs see the world with their eyes. They're wrong. Our noses tell us everything. I knew which bakery baked fresh pandesal before sunrise because its warm, sweet scent drifted across three streets. I knew which carinderia cooked fried fish every Wednesday because the smell lingered until evening. I knew which garbage bins sometimes hid forgotten chicken bones and which ones were always empty. The city had its own language. It spoke through smells. Fresh rain on hot concrete. Coffee drifting from office buildings before sunrise. Perfume mixed with cigarette smoke. Gasoline. Dust. Old newspapers. The scent of tired people hurrying somewhere they didn't want to be. I often sat outside the glass doors of a tall office building. Not because anyone fed me there. But because I liked watching the humans. Every morning, hundreds of them entered wearing clean clothes and carrying bags. Every evening, they came back looking different. Their clothes smelled of paper, printers, coffee, air conditioning, and buses packed so tightly that strangers became part of each other's scent. Most of them walked with their heads down. Some looked angry. Some laughed while talking to glowing rectangles in their hands. Others simply stared ahead as if they had forgotten how to smile. I wondered where they went every day. Maybe humans hunted for food like dogs did. Only... inside buildings. One afternoon, my stomach hurt so badly that I couldn't stop thinking about food. The rain had started early, and that always made things harder. The bakery closed before I arrived. The market vendors packed everything away. Even the garbage bins had their lids tied shut because of the wind. I wandered through narrow streets, hoping someone might accidentally drop something. Instead, I found another hungry dog. He was much bigger than me. Between us lay a single piece of bread, soaked from the rain. He growled. I didn't. I simply backed away. He needed it as much as I did. Maybe more. The city had taught me another lesson. Sometimes surviving meant knowing when to let go. That evening, the rain became heavier. The kind that made the sky disappear. Water rushed along the streets, carrying leaves, plastic wrappers, and little rivers of mud. People hurried beneath umbrellas, trying not to get wet. I wasn't lucky enough to own an umbrella. I wasn't lucky enough to own anything. My paws were cold. My fur clung tightly to my skin. Every step felt heavier than the last. Finally, I found shelter beside an old concrete wall near a quiet side street. It wasn't much. Just enough roof to stop the rain from falling directly onto my head. I curled into the smallest ball I could manage and tucked my nose beneath my tail. My stomach growled again. I tried to ignore it. Hunger had become part of me. Some nights I imagined eating whole chickens. Other nights I dreamed of warm rice. Sometimes I dreamed about things I'd never tasted before. When I woke up... There was only rain. The city became quieter after dark. Shops closed. The smell of food slowly faded. The only things left were wet concrete, gasoline, rust, and the distant scent of buses carrying tired people home. Home. I didn't really know what that word meant. Was it a place? Was it a person? Could a dog have one? I had slept beneath bridges, abandoned tricycles, cardboard boxes, waiting sheds, and once inside a broken jeepney. None of them ever felt different. They only kept the rain away. Maybe that was what home was supposed to do. I closed my eyes. Maybe tomorrow would be kinder. Then... I heard footsteps. Not fast. Not hurried. Slow. Heavy. Almost dragging against the wet pavement. Step. Splash. Step. Splash. I lifted my head. A man was walking alone beneath the rain. He didn't have an umbrella. His white office shirt was soaked through, and his sleeves were rolled unevenly to his elbows. A worn black backpack hung from one shoulder, and his leather shoes looked so old that one sole had begun peeling away. He looked tired. Not sleepy. The kind of tired that settled deep inside someone's heart. Even from where I was hiding, I could smell his day. Paper. Ink. Coffee. Air conditioning. Printer toner. Dust. Crowded buses. Metal handrails. And beneath all of it... Loneliness. He stopped beneath the flickering streetlight and reached into his pocket. Slowly, he opened an old wallet. Inside were only a few folded bills and several coins. He counted them once. Then again. A small sigh escaped him. "I just need to make it until payday," he murmured to himself. His voice was quiet. Almost swallowed by the rain. He smiled anyway. Not because things were good. Because he had already accepted they weren't. Then my nose caught another scent. Warm bread. Fresh rice. Fried chicken. The smell drifted from the small plastic bag hanging in his hand. My stomach tightened so hard it almost hurt. I hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Without thinking, I stepped out from my hiding place. One paw. Then another. Water splashed beneath my feet. The man heard it. He slowly turned his head. Our eyes met beneath the rain. I froze. I expected him to wave his arms. To shout. To throw something. Instead... He simply looked at me. Really looked at me. Not through me. Not around me. At me. His tired eyes softened. "So..." he whispered with a gentle smile. "There you are." He slowly knelt on the rain-soaked pavement, not caring that his pants became wet. "You've been hiding here this whole time, haven't you?" I didn't understand the words. But I understood his voice. It didn't sound angry. It sounded... kind. Carefully, he opened the plastic bag. The smell became even stronger. Rice. Chicken. Bread. He looked at the food. Then at me. For a brief moment, I saw something cross his face. Hesitation. He was hungry too. I could smell it. His stomach made the same quiet sound mine had made all afternoon. He had very little. Maybe that was all the food he had until tomorrow. He looked down at the meal one last time. Then, without another thought, he tore the biggest piece of fried chicken in half. He placed the larger piece on the ground between us. And quietly pushed it toward me. "I was saving this for dinner," he said with a tired laugh. "But..." He smiled. "I think you need it more than I do." At that moment... I still didn't know his name. I didn't know he worked twelve-hour days just to afford a tiny apartment. I didn't know he skipped lunch whenever money became tight. I didn't know he had no one waiting for him at home. All I knew... Was that on the coldest, hungriest night of my life... A stranger chose to share his dinner with me. And without either of us realizing it... That single piece of chicken was the beginning of a love that neither time, sickness, nor even death would ever erase.