**Cola’s Story: A Tongue That Couldn’t Hide Her Will to Live**

She was wandering outside, alone and injured. Her tongue hung from her mouth—not in playfulness, but because of a devastating injury. When the rescuer found her, they hesitated for a moment, then chose compassion.

After contacting a rescue station, she was carefully lifted into a car. It wasn’t her first ride—she was surprisingly calm, as if she trusted the journey ahead.

The vet was stunned. Not only had her lower jaw been destroyed, but her upper gums and teeth were also gone. Surgery wasn’t immediately possible, so conservative treatment began. The little dog lay quietly, as though she believed she had done something wrong. The rescuer couldn’t bear it and took her home.

She blinked gently, as if realizing she was safe now.

At first, she was terrified of touch. She couldn’t eat on her own, so the rescuer fed her spoon by spoon. It took a night before she dared to eat. Even then, she only managed small portions of soft, mashed food. For three days, she struggled.

But slowly, things began to change.

She started eating a little more. Her rescuer trimmed her fur, and the dog sat still, understanding this was kindness. She was then given a bath—finally clean, she fell asleep in her new nest. A week had passed.

On the seventh day, she stepped outside for the first time. Her legs trembled. The trauma she’d experienced ran deep. Perhaps she feared abandonment again. But at home, her tail wagged freely. Ten days in, she had already made great progress. Her rescuer began to train her to use diapers, guiding her patiently.

Due to the damage to her mouth, her tongue always stuck out. Eating remained a struggle. The rescuer consulted specialists, but the only surgical solution involved removing the entire jaw—an invasive, costly procedure with poor outcomes. They chose not to put her through more pain.

Yet she grew stronger. Her fur softened, and she gained weight. She wore new clothes but still feared going outside. Indoors, though, her curiosity blossomed. Soon, she was running again. Her steps became light, her spirit bright.

She didn’t like wearing a muzzle—after all, her tongue refused to stay in. When she finally pulled the muzzle off, her tongue flopped out triumphantly. She would adapt in her own way.

Eventually, they gave her a name: **Cola**.

It suited her—a sweet, fizzy spark in a small, damaged body. The days passed. Cola rolled around in joy, curiously chasing pigeons. Her tail wagged constantly. Strangers may have been afraid of her tongue, but Cola only wanted to make friends. She would sit outside, waiting patiently for dogs who wouldn’t come.

They were scared of how she looked.

“Don’t come near, it’s the dog with the long tongue,” someone said. Still, Cola couldn’t stop wagging her tail, desperate to be loved. She never knew what she’d done wrong.

Children were kinder. They petted her gently, smiled, and saw beyond her appearance. In their eyes, she was just a sweet, funny little dog.

Three months passed. Cola had become a clean, playful pup again. When snow fell, she ran with joy, chasing birds. After all she’d been through, Cola was still full of wonder.

Her rescuer ensured she never felt hunger again, or loneliness. Cola was a cherished part of the family. But her health remained fragile. Stomach issues, repeated hospital visits, and eventually—a tumor.

They removed it quickly. Her resilience was astounding. She recovered, though weaker. Still, she played. She smiled. Her spirit didn’t fade.

Even after multiple surgeries, inflammation, and medication, Cola continued to love life. Her rescuer fed her by hand, patiently, every day. When she got tired from lying too long, they applied medicine to her sores.

She had a special seat in the car for hospital visits. She hated leaving—but once home, she’d wait at the door, tail wagging, ready to go out and play.

Cola had become confident. Even when mocked by other dogs, she held her head high. Her smile—though toothless—was radiant.

By the fifth month, she was back to running. By the sixth and seventh, she was beloved by the children in her home. Then came more bad news.

A hernia. Another surgery. More complications: kidney issues, heart enlargement, anemia. Her mouth began to deteriorate further.

The vet prioritized the hernia, delaying the oral treatment. Despite the pain, Cola endured it all. After each injection, she would dash away from the clinic—but her spark remained.

In month eight, she battled gastroenteritis. Weak and frail, she waited by the kitchen for food. She had never known an easy life. But now, at least, she knew sweetness and safety.

Then came month nine. More hospitalizations. Cancer had spread to her bones.

She stayed over two weeks. Her walking became difficult, her body shook, but she refused to give up. She wanted to be strong—for her rescuer.

Month eleven.

Cola’s surgical wounds were healing. She walked outside again, a little slower, but happy. Her rescuer brought her to the hospital every day. Her list of diagnoses grew: kidney disease, cancer, heart issues, anemia…

And then, one night, three days ago—

Cola passed away quietly in her rescuer’s arms.

She lived eleven beautiful months in her new home. And in those months, she taught everyone what it meant to be brave, to be grateful, to love despite the pain.

She was never alone. So many people loved her.

Rest in peace, Cola. You were deeply, deeply loved.