A lesson in mercy and compassion

WHEN I was in my teens, I carried the first stirrings of a fear of stray dogs. Their staccato barks and unyielding gaze used to unnerve me. I would alter my route home if it meant avoiding a stretch of road taken over by two or three strays. Deserted streets became minefields in my mind — each corner a potential ambush.

One summer afternoon, while returning from school, I came upon a feral dog standing in my way. My heart thudded against my ribs. I was only a few yards from my house when it barked sharply, its voice slicing through the still air. My pulse raced as I bent down and picked up a stone. This was no act of aggression, but a shield — a defensive instinct born of helplessness. My plan was simple: raise my arm, make a feint and scare it away.

The dog froze, its barks steady but wary. My grip tightened as if the stone were my only shield. My mind played out two possibilities: the dog backing away in fear, or the stone finding its mark. Neither seemed entirely satisfying, but fear is a strange master; it doesn’t wait for moral deliberation.

Then, in that charged moment, my mother’s voice cut across the tension. She had been watching from our gate. Her voice was calm but firm as she told me to throw the stone away. I turned, startled. Her eyes held no trace of fear, only certainty.

As I dropped the stone, she came closer and said something that would remain with me forever: “An animal’s life is as precious as that of a human being.”

Her words settled over me with unexpected force. Until then, I had thought of stray dogs as a nuisance — hazards to be avoided or, if necessary, repelled. The idea that their lives held the same value as mine was both disarming and illuminating. In that moment, my fear loomed large, but something else began to take root alongside it: compassion.

From that day on, my perception of animals changed. I began to notice their hunger, their wounds, their wary glances. I realised that many strays bark out of fear, hunger or the instinct to protect themselves — not from malice. They, too, navigate a world filled with threats, many of them human.

The encounter did not turn me into an ardent animal activist, nor did it erase my caution about strays. But it transformed the lens through which I viewed them. I learned that fear can be tempered by empathy, and that an act as small as lowering your hand can mark the beginning of a deeper moral awakening.

Today, whenever I see a stray dog, I recall that afternoon — the stone, the bark, my mother’s timely intervention. And I remember that compassion often begins not with grand gestures, but with the decision, in a single moment, to choose mercy over harm.