Dublin vs Neglect: The Fight He Shouldn’t Have Had to Win

His opponent wasn’t a champion boxer sporting a winner’s belt. No, his oppressors were far, far more ruthless: drought, neglect and unjust animal protection laws. And out here, there was no referee to even the score. Unless you count kindness, that is.
 
Dublin lay slumped in one corner of a tiny shed. Hope lay curled up in the other. Just within reach if the young ram chose to take it.
 
As we gently looked him over, Dublin began to tell us his heartbreaking story.
 
Round one: Neglect and the drought. Dublin’s long, overgrown fleece riddled with spear grass seeds hid his skeletal frame.

Round two: The crows. Their coward’s blows struck Dublin while he lay cast and helpless on the ground, unable to move. His right eye was swollen, bloody and putrid with the stench of decay seeping out. Too weak to rise for the count, yet he still had enough life left not to throw in the towel.
 
Blood dripped from his nostrils, a signature sign of his fight. And when we stretched out a hand, he sniffed it suspiciously, lowered his head and seemed to mutter, “Get away now. I don’t want your pity.”

Though weak, Dublin refused to concede. And so we eased him to his feet and walked him, dignity intact, to the Kindness Van. He reeked of despair as we reeked of urine and mud.
 
The trek back to sanctuary was long and eerie. Fog had settled over the road like it, too had absorbed the weight of Dublin’s suffering. Through the night, we triaged and offered care, as Dublin picked at hay and drank a litre of fresh cool water.

And he showed us what we wanted most to see. He wasn’t finished yet.
 
No, not just yet for Dublin.

“See you in the morning, tough guy,” we whispered as we slid the door closed. It wasn’t just hope we spoke—it was a solemn promise.

And in the morning, to our great relief, Dublin kept his side of it. He was still with us—just barely, but enough.

A night of rest and sustenance had given him the strength to rise again. His determined headbutts echoed the bravado of a battered boxer still insisting on one more round. Mist filled our eyes as we recognised his ruined eye will probably need removal. But his spirit—oh, his mighty fighting spirit—was still gloriously intact.

We clipped away his long-neglected, urine-soaked fleece. A heavy robe he should never have had to wear. We upped his pain relief and we showed him that the sun still shines on his world.

Only time will tell the final victor. But Dublin, who has endured drought, neglect, hunger and pain, still meets us with defiance. He still insists on fighting. And that should give us pause.

Because it should not be animals like Dublin fighting for their lives. It should be us—fighting for them.

Until all know kindness.