Not a Wonderful World: The Longest Night of My Life Trying to Save an Ailing Animal

On the night of November 28th, just as I was about to sleep, I heard four dogs bawling outside the house. While this is a common sound where I live, something about that night felt different—almost unsettling. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. I rushed to the entrance to see what was happening.  What I saw left me shocked and heartbroken. A skinny, emaciated calf was being attacked by a pack of aggressive street dogs. From my first-floor balcony, I shouted and tried to scare the dogs away. After what felt like forever, they finally ran off. I quickly ran downstairs and opened the gate, relieved that I had stopped the attack.  

But as I stood in front of the calf, that relief faded away. The calf was badly hurt. Blood dripped from its wounds, its tail and earlobe were bitten off, and it collapsed on the ground. My heart sank as I watched it struggle for life. I felt completely helpless as tears rolled down my face at 2 a.m.  

I called my parents, and we stood there, wondering what to do. That night, we learned a harsh truth: there’s no clear way to help when an animal is dying in front of you. None of the animal helplines or private organizations were reachable. We even called the police, but what could they do in a situation like this? The famous 1962 animal helpline, which is supposed to help injured animals, turned out to be of least help. When they finally answered around 3 a.m., they told us they only work from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. I couldn’t believe it—what happens to animals who need urgent help outside these hours? (Is this helpline, which was introduced with so much of pomp of any help at all?) They told us to wait until morning, but how could we, knowing the calf was bleeding and suffering? I decided to stay up all night to protect the calf from any more attacks and kept trying other phone numbers. 

Around 3 a.m., the calf’s mother showed up. What happened next was one of the most heartbreaking things I’ve ever seen. She licked her calf’s ears gently, made low sounds that felt like cries of pain, and stood there for a while. Then she left.  It was the rawest expression of love and loss I had ever witnessed. It felt like she understood something we humans fail to—how broken our society is. We ignore the rising problem of aggressive stray dogs and fail to hold accountable those who abandon their cattle to suffer on the streets. 

Finally, at 9 a.m., the 1962 helpline sent help, but they didn’t show up until 10:30 a.m., after constant reminders and follow-ups. I had also contacted private vets, but they said the calf’s condition was too critical to handle. The calf had somehow stayed alive for eight long hours, as if hoping we could save it.  The vet gave it a rabies vaccine and treated its wounds, but the next challenge was finding a shelter. I knew leaving it outside wasn’t safe, as more dogs could attack. I called every shelter I could think of, but no one was willing to take in a calf that had been bitten, even after I explained it was vaccinated. The municipal authorities gave me false promises, saying they’d send help, but no one came for hours. Hours passed, and as my hope faded, so did the calf’s life. 

When it finally passed away, I wasn’t just sad—I was angry. 

I couldn’t eat all day. Even after the calf died, the municipality took another three hours to take its body away.  

It was a long night of dismay and helplessness. We’ve become numb to suffering, whether it’s human or animal. We disrespect life, time, and everything that matters. But we’re great at pretending—we cover it all up with false pride, fake sympathy, and empty promises.    

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