I still can’t believe how fast it all happened. One minute we were walking back from the park, my daughter Mireya skipping ahead like she always does, and the next she was kneeling in front of this scruffy little dog by the corner store.
He wagged his tail. She giggled. It all looked harmless.
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“Don’t touch him, baby,” I called out, but not fast enough.
He nipped her hand—not a big bite, just a quick snap. No blood, just a small red mark. She cried more from the shock than pain. The dog bolted. I scooped her up and went home thinking it was nothing.
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That night, she had a fever. Then she started shaking.
By the time we got to the ER, her heart rate was through the roof. They were asking questions I didn’t have answers to—“Was the dog vaccinated? Did it show signs of aggression?” I kept saying, It looked friendly. It wagged its tail.
They kept her overnight. Hooked up to all those wires, breathing through her nose, tiny fingers wrapped in that plastic gauze. I sat there frozen, like if I blinked too long I’d miss something.
Turns out, Mireya had been exposed to more than just a harmless nip from the dog. The doctors explained that it was likely the dog had rabies, and even though the bite was minor, the virus had begun to affect her system. The fever and shaking were just the early symptoms, and they couldn’t take any chances.
They started her on a series of rabies shots immediately, and it felt like a slow, suffocating process—each shot a reminder that the situation was far worse than I had imagined. I had always heard about rabies in passing, like it was something distant, something that happened to other people in other parts of the world. Never to us. Never to my daughter. But here we were, watching as my baby girl fought for every breath.
I couldn’t stop the waves of guilt that crashed over me. Why didn’t I just stop her from touching the dog? Why did I let her get so close? I felt like I had failed her as a parent, that one small moment had spiraled into this terrifying reality.
The doctors assured me she was stable and that with the treatments, she’d likely make a full recovery. But the nights in the hospital were long and filled with constant monitoring, and my nerves were stretched thin. The worst part was seeing her so vulnerable. Mireya had always been full of life—running, laughing, playing. Now, she was so still, so small, under the harsh lights of the hospital room.
As the days passed, I tried to push away the thoughts of what could have happened if we hadn’t gone to the ER that night. The doctors had told me rabies was almost always fatal once symptoms appeared. The fact that Mireya was alive, still breathing, still holding my hand, felt like an impossible blessing. And yet, I couldn’t shake the terror of those long hours in the hospital.
Then, something happened that I wasn’t prepared for.
One afternoon, as Mireya started to regain some of her energy, she asked me a question that I wasn’t expecting. “Mom, why did the dog bite me? Was it because I was bad?”
Her voice was soft, as if she was still processing what had happened. I could see the confusion in her eyes, the uncertainty. A child’s mind doesn’t understand danger in the same way an adult does. She wasn’t afraid of the rabies or the shots—she was afraid of the dog, and of herself.
I leaned down beside her bed, trying my best to mask the anxiety that still gripped me. “No, sweetheart. You weren’t bad. The dog was just scared. Sometimes animals get frightened, and they react without meaning to hurt us.”
“But I just wanted to pet him,” she whispered, the tears welling up in her eyes.
I brushed her hair from her forehead, wiping away the remnants of the fever-induced sweat. “I know, baby. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
It broke my heart that she was even questioning herself. And it made me realize that the damage done wasn’t just physical. She was carrying this heavy burden of guilt that no child should have to bear. She had always been a happy, carefree kid, and now this was hanging over her like a cloud.
In the days that followed, I worked hard to reassure her. We talked about what had happened, explaining again that she hadn’t done anything wrong, that sometimes things just happen, even if we don’t understand them. We also made sure to let her know that the dog was not her fault.
But the emotional toll was still there. Mireya had been traumatized, not just by the dog’s bite, but by the whole experience. I realized that the trauma wasn’t just about the physical danger—though that was certainly terrifying. It was about how out of control we can feel when something we love is taken from us so unexpectedly. It was about how quickly life could change from something simple and joyful into something life-threatening.
Then, one afternoon, we got a call from the animal shelter. They had found the dog.
Apparently, the animal had been wandering the streets for some time. No one knew where it had come from or how long it had been suffering from rabies. The shelter staff told me they’d taken it to the vet, and sure enough, it was confirmed to be rabid. They were going to put the dog down to prevent it from harming anyone else.
I don’t know why, but when I heard that news, it felt like a punch to the gut. I felt angry, of course, but not at the dog. Not even at the situation. I felt angry at the world for being so unfair. Why did Mireya have to be the one to suffer? She didn’t deserve it.
But there was something else in my heart, something deeper. Something I didn’t quite understand at first.
I knew this was an opportunity for us to make it right, for us to change the narrative. Mireya needed closure. And I needed to give it to her.
A few days later, I took her to the shelter. I didn’t know what to expect, but I knew we had to face it together. We arrived, and the shelter staff led us to the area where the dog had been kept. It was empty, the cage clean and empty now, the remnants of the dog’s short life fading into the air.
I knelt beside Mireya, who looked up at me, her eyes searching mine for an answer. “Mom, are we here to say goodbye to the dog?”
I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything I had been holding inside me. “No, sweetie. We’re here to forgive him. Sometimes animals make mistakes too, and we need to let them go.”
Mireya nodded, a little unsure, but she trusted me. Together, we stood in front of the empty cage and said a small prayer for the dog, for his soul, and for the peace we needed to move forward.
And just like that, something shifted. It wasn’t a miracle or a sudden revelation, but it felt like we had lifted a heavy burden off our shoulders. The act of forgiveness, of acknowledging the pain and letting it go, gave us both peace. Mireya’s eyes cleared, and I could see her starting to heal, starting to understand that this was just one chapter of her life, not the whole story.
But the real twist came a week later, when we received a letter from the shelter. They had found out that the dog’s previous owners had abandoned him months ago, and they had been searching for someone to care for him before he went astray. The shelter had also learned that the dog had a history of being abused, which might have explained his aggressive behavior.
It wasn’t just the rabies or the fear of being abandoned. It was a life filled with neglect and cruelty. The karmic twist? The story of the dog wasn’t just a sad tale. It was a warning for all of us—not just to be careful, but to have empathy for even those who seem beyond help.
When I told Mireya, she understood. She was still young, but I could see the lessons settling in. She had learned to forgive not just the dog, but the circumstances that had led to his pain. And that was a gift I could never have given her myself.
Life isn’t always fair. Bad things happen, and sometimes there’s no explanation for why they happen. But how we handle them—that’s where we have the power. It’s in forgiveness, in understanding, in moving forward, that we find the strength to live with the pain and grow from it.
So, if you’ve been carrying something heavy, or if you’ve been holding on to hurt, I encourage you to forgive. Not for the other person’s sake, but for yours. Let go of the weight, and you’ll find a freedom that you didn’t even know was possible.
If this story resonated with you, share it with someone who might need a reminder that forgiveness can heal even the deepest wounds.
