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I was standing on the streets of Cairo’s ancient Khan el Khalili market with my mother and sister. The bustling, covered alleyways danced with shadows cast by twinkling lanterns that hung outside the shops nearby, painting the night with magic, but the excitement I had felt just a moment ago had vanished. Up ahead, several children were tossing plastic bottles at a small form lying on the sidewalk, and my heart stopped as we drew closer. It was a puppy. The skin on his belly was gone, revealing a strip of raw flesh from a wound old enough to have already dried out, and if not for the shallow, labored breaths that came every few seconds, I would have thought he was already dead. The children scattered the moment they saw us, abandoning the poor creature they had been tormenting, and our Egyptian guide gave us a sad look. “There is nothing to be done,” Ahmed said. “The dog will die, we should go.” My mother’s eyes were filled with tears, and I could see the regret on Ahmed's face as he put his arm around her shoulders. “Street dogs die often, mama,” he told her. “I would help, but I have no money for dogs.” The puppy let out a quiet whine, and my sister and I exchanged a glance. Our night was supposed to be spent walking the market streets, but now, the plans had changed. My sister began scrolling through her contacts. It didn’t take long for her to find a local rescue, and an Uber driver could pick us up in less than an hour. My mother and I waited beside the puppy while my sister disappeared with Ahmed in search of something to carry him in. A crowd was gathering; some of them laughed at our worry, but most seemed happy that we were trying to help. The puppy had been hurt earlier that day, from what they described in their broken English. A truck had barreled through the narrow street and the driver hadn’t seen the animal. My sister came back a few minutes later—she was carrying a box, but to my surprise, so was Ahmed. There was a second puppy that had been injured, and a shopkeeper had tried giving him food and water. The first one had been left for dead, his injuries deemed beyond hope. We carried the boxes through the streets as we headed for the main road; word had spread quickly, and most of the people we passed had heard about what we were doing. Several of them chided Ahmed for helping the crazy foreign women with something like this—the death of street dogs is a common occurrence in Egypt, and trying to save them is considered a waste of time and money. Ahmed smiled despite the mocking laughter. “They say I am crazy,” he chuckled happily. “I only have a dog in a box, but I feel like I have won a big prize!” We reached the road to wait for our ride. Ahmed waited with us, practically bubbling with excitement. He didn’t have the resources to help the puppies on his own, but now that he knew there was a chance to save them, he couldn’t contain himself. He had no idea that there was an animal rescue in Egypt like the one my sister knew about, and when he heard that the medical bill would be paid for by the rescue, he almost didn’t believe it. Our driver arrived and we headed for the veterinarian. As I sat in the backseat, trying to keep the puppy from jostling inside the box, I found myself wondering how many street dogs could be saved if kindhearted people like Ahmed knew that there were ways to help them. In the end, our efforts were sadly in vain. The puppies died, unable to recover from their devastating injuries, but everyone who heard about our attempted rescue knows now that there is a place in Egypt to call the next time a street dog is hurt. Maybe some of them won’t bother, but in the alluring maze of Khan el Khalili’s vibrant streets, there is at least one person who will.