在报恩古寺，触摸生命的脆弱和坚韧

Today is the Spring Equinox of 2025. It's been nearly three months since my last visit to Bao'en Ancient Temple. How are they doing?

The early spring breeze still carried a chill in the air. After an hour's drive, I arrived once more at Bao'en Ancient Temple. Along the yellow walls, osmanthus trees had quietly sprouted tender green buds. Yet beneath the eaves, that familiar cream-colored figure did not bound toward me with its usual exuberance.

It lay curled up motionless on the concrete beside the red pillar. I crouched down, my fingers gently brushing its spine, and my heart sank—its body beneath the fur was alarmingly hot, its breath faint as a thread. The volunteer auntie beside me murmured, "It's the old ailment. It's been suffering all night."

I quickly mixed warm water and drew glucose solution into a syringe, feeding it drop by drop to its mouth. Its eyes were half-closed, its tongue weakly curled around the tip of the tube, yet it still mustered every ounce of strength to gently nuzzle my wrist. I remember last winter, when it was still lively and energetic, always the first to dash over and snatch the kibble from my palm.

The auntie told me that many of the "fur babies" at the temple carry scars from their past, and they struggle most during seasonal transitions. I helped apply an ice pack for it and changed the water for the other puppies. The air was filled with the crisp, clean scent of disinfectant.

The car slowly pulled away. I turned to look back, and that tiny figure was still curled up under the porch, too weak even to stand up and wave goodbye.

In that moment, I suddenly grasped the deeper meaning of "companionship"—it isn't always about playful moments and affection under the sun, but about being willing to make that long hour-long drive when they are most vulnerable and in need, just to offer a touch of warm companionship.