I want to wish a bad life to those who abandon their dogs because they are old, sick, because they stink, piss and would look bad in the living room with friends.
In particular to those who, when their elderly dog escaped from the kennel to return to his family, then brought him back to it.
And to those who have left a poor beast in a place where now, even if it is pouring with rain, he wants to wait for them until he dies.
And to that hunter who shot a bastard in the mouth, ripping off half his muzzle and letting some kids take the blame.
And to the devil who reduced his cub to a breathing skeleton.
All stories that, when you see the photos online, you can only avoid them so as not to feel bad. And you wonder what these people are capable of, what they have inside and what they would do to their fellow men too, if they could.
Here, with a lot of sympathy for that gentleman who shot someone who was beating his beast, I wish all these people a life of suffering, hardship, disease, poverty and, above all, betrayed trust. Because this is what we talk about.
Animals are not perfect, they have their own characters and they cause problems. Animals can bite, scratch, kill (like us) by law of nature and by the instinct of conservation of the species. Animals are not angels, they stink, vomit, peel and pee on the sofa. But they are eternal children, innocent beings even when they make mistakes, beings who love us, love all that we are without ever judging us and trust us until death.
We are not beasts, we do not have the harsh laws of the herd, we can choose not to betray, to accompany a friend who has loved us all his life on the extreme journey, looking him in the eyes until the last moment, we can choose to give him a blanket , a soup and a caress even when it is ugly, bald and fetid.
Here, really, I wish all these bad people a bad life. There are no other words to define them: bad, inhuman, insensitive. Even if they dress well, even if they go to church, even if they give alms, even if they spoil their children. They are evil, they have no pity and no compassion and I don’t think they can feel it for other human beings either.
And to those who tell me that I must love people too, I do not wish a bad life, no, but only the ability to understand that where there is compassion, there is also that humanity that they invoke and that, often, in their case, does not go beyond sharing a post on a social network, while for me it has always meant taking care, daily and with sacrifice, of another being with legs and tail.
Those black-hearted people, when they wake up, have to deal with their conscience, if they have one. I, on the other hand, meet my dog’s eyes and still manage to get up.
About the Creator
Patrizia Poli
Patrizia Poli was born in Livorno in 1961. Writer of fiction and blogger, she published seven novels.
Keep reading
More stories from Patrizia Poli and writers in Petlife and other communities.
Keeping your pets safe (and calm) this holiday season
The holiday season may be magical for some humans, but for pets it only means confusion, changed routines, overstimulation, extra noise, guests or pet sitters come and go, and sometimes the festive season means danger for pets.
By Susan Fourtané 19 days ago in Petlife
The Chair That Never Came
The ballroom shimmered beneath a thousand lights, every breath in the room carrying a quiet note of expectation. It was the annual Global Philanthropy Summit — the kind of gathering where names were whispered, not introduced, and where power did not need to announce itself. Guests filled the hall in practiced elegance: CEOs, founders, donors whose signatures could build hospitals or topple companies. Their names were printed on cards in the front rows — curated, counted, and arranged weeks ahead of time. And then, she arrived. Megan, the Duchess of Sussex, stepped into the room with her aide at her side — unlisted, unexpected, yet walking with the confidence of someone long accustomed to the world bending for her. A ripple went through the staff. She wasn’t on the schedule. Her name wasn’t on the seating chart. Yet here she was — bright, smiling, certain that a seat had been prepared simply because she had entered. Her assistant gestured toward the front row — an empty chair, momentarily vacated by a tech billionaire who had stepped away. They approached. A tap on her shoulder stopped her. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” an event coordinator said, voice low but firm. “This row is reserved. We have a place for you on the side.” It was polite. It was professional. But it was also final. Witnesses described a frozen moment — the duchess pausing, her fixed smile barely shifting. She waited. Surely someone would come. Someone always did. Someone to pull forward a chair, clear a space, make room for The Duchess. But the room moved without her. Guests settled. Conversations resumed. Cameras flashed for other faces. No eyes searched for her. No staff scrambled. For a long, awkward stretch of minutes, she stood — a royal silhouette in a space where titles were currency no one traded in. Only after the keynote began did someone quietly guide her to a chair far off to the side — not ignored, but unmistakably ordinary. It was a message sharper than any royal protocol. Here, pedigree meant nothing. Here, you had to earn your place. As she sat, her posture perfect, she seemed smaller somehow — not in height, but in certainty. She had left behind a palace she felt confined her. Now she was discovering that the world outside was not a red carpet rolled out on demand, but a maze of circles that chose who belonged. No one glared. No one mocked. Worse — no one cared. And as the lights dimmed and the speaker continued, the duchess realized that a story she controlled for years — of escape, of reinvention, of ranking above the room — had slipped unexpectedly from her hands. Because in this world, there were no thrones to claim. Only seats to earn. And on this night, hers had not yet been built. Yet the echoes of that evening stretched far beyond the ballroom. In the days that followed, the incident circulated quietly through private WhatsApp groups, PR offices, and agency boardrooms long before it drifted onto newsfeeds. It became not merely a moment, but a cautionary parable whispered among people who move unseen behind red carpets and televised galas. The philanthropic summit, for all its glamour, was in essence a workplace — one built on long hours, unglamorous logistics, and delicate balances of influence. Those who earned their seats — hedge fund architects, founders who spent decades scaling companies from kitchen tables, activists who slept more nights in tents than in five-star hotels — had arrived with portfolios of proof. Their chairs symbolized legacy, labor, and investment. That was the silent contradiction that defined the tension of the evening: a clash between earned capital and perceived entitlement. Long after the lights dimmed, several attendees recalled the most striking image of the night was not Meghan’s presence, but the posture she held. Standing still while those around her settled into ease created a tableau impossible to ignore. The body language told its own story — a woman accustomed to doors opening, suddenly meeting a door that did not move. But the narrative is not static. Those closest to Hollywood know perception shifts as quickly as ticket sales or social algorithms. For every room closing, another may open. A new initiative, a breakout documentary, a bold charity partnership — any could rewrite the arc. Indeed, some observers saw the moment less as punishment and more as a turning point. A “reset” disguised as discomfort. Within crisis, opportunity hides — and public figures have reinvented themselves from weaker positions. The industry rewards resilience almost as much as originality. Whether Meghan interprets the evening as humiliation or instruction remains unseen. What will matter most is the response — not in speeches or statements, but in action. Consistency. Delivery. Showing up in rooms after the spotlight fades, not only before it rises. The silent lesson of the missing chair was not only you cannot assume your place — it was you can build one. Chairs — literal or symbolic — are manufactured, funded, and earned. They are pulled up by those willing not just to sit, but to contribute. The question now hanging over future rooms is simple and powerful: Will Meghan build her chair — or wait for another one to be offered?
By Behind the Curtaina day ago in Petlife
📢 Raise Your Voice Thread: 01/08/2026
Our “Raise Your Voice Threads” are hosted most alternating Thursdays at 12PM ET to offer creators more avenues to uncover exceptional stories on Vocal. As we are continuously searching for fresh creators and inspiring stories, this thread provides an opportunity to exchange and discuss the stories that have moved and motivated us on Vocal.
By Raise Your Voice by Vocal6 days ago in Resources
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.