WE ARE DELIGHTED TO WELCOME OUR GUEST AUTHOR, SNJEZANA MARINKOVIC, WHO IS SHARING AN EXCERPT FROM HER NOVEL, 'SEVEN DAYS WITH COCO' #RWRTeamBlog #ReadWriteRepeat

Some memories keep knocking at the door and waiting for peace to let them in. They don’t know

that forgiveness is holding the key.

Someone once told me that a child who grew up without parents and survived war has nothing in common with an animal behind shelter bars. But I know they do. They are both waiting for a hero to save them. They share the same pain. They share the same confusion. The unavoidable helplessness is a heavy burden to bear. Wide-open eyes can’t shed a tear. A small body trembling in a shadowed corner, unable to feel the sunlight. I know this because I was that child. And today, I’m that volunteer who meets the hope-and-fear-filled eyes of dogs and cats as they walk the long hallway. Ahead lie only two paths: one leading to freedom and a family willing to give them a second chance, the other leading to silence. Another intentionally interrupted journey. Another curtain closed, blocking out a dazzling light.

In these pages, I will share the stories of unwanted animals alongside my own memories, hoping to inspire others to open their hearts. When we have compassion, we can see an animal’s pain, hear their cries, and recognize that kindness and love are priceless gifts meant to be shared. Kindness and love can save the millions of animals who are euthanized each year simply for lack of space. Kindness and love also saved my life. As a former war exile, still searching for a refuge for those who can’t find it themselves, I’m forever thankful for the existence of a helping hand. Animals see and feel the world around them, but they can’t tell anyone their observations. I’ve been with them all my life—from pre-vet studies to various roles in animal hospitals and pet daycare centers. From rescuing strays and fostering them to finding them forever homes. From letting them teach me patience and compassion to trusting them with my broken pieces. I know them. That’s why I shared my life with them long before I decided to write about it.

Animals can’t tell you how much they suffer—but I will. I’ll also tell you how unfairly they’re judged, even though they love without judgment.

I endured every form of abuse you might read about in trauma therapy books. Yet I’m still here. My soul has carried me through every insult, every bruise, and every wound. Today, I write to connect with others who carry invisible scars, those who suffer in silence, cry unseen tears, and believe no one could possibly understand their pain. To them, it often feels as if their lives don’t matter. I felt the same. I felt worthless.

But who am I today? I often define myself as a memoir writer, a poet, and a dreamer. A memoir writer because, at twelve years old, I already carried bitter memories but only had paper and a pen to share them with. A poet because free verse gave me the hope that, in every new language I learned, I would be able to express myself both eloquently and artistically. And a dreamer because, as I moved from one country to another in search of safety, I dreamed of a place I could call home.

Sometimes dreams must be strong enough to face the villains of the past. Once, I was treated as a zero and given no chance to survive. Still, I dreamed of a world without war, injustice, or hate. Where love and space existed for everyone. Yet in 1991, I was confronted with the opposite in the country I called home—Yugoslavia. I was “scheduled” to die. Europe’s deadliest conflict since World War II had begun, and survival felt like a distant hope.

But I’m still here, and I now share stories of others who, like me, were treated as if they were nothing, given little or no chance to survive. One of them was even named Zero. In 2023, a dog stood in a Texas high-kill shelter, his cage labeled Zero, American Pit Bull Terrier. Like me, he waited for a death sentence in his own country. Like me, he was still young, unable to understand why his life should end or what he had done to deserve it.

But unlike me, Zero never made it out. He was “humanely” euthanized for lack of space, aka lack of people’s love. To show respect for this puppy, I changed his name in my mind to Nada. Nada reminds me of the balance between good and bad. It translates to nothing in Spanish, but to hope in Bosnian. Nada is something that gives me faith in a better tomorrow.

Walking through animal shelters makes me think of life as a fragile glass sitting on the corner of a table. People pass by it. Winds weaken it. Strong winds come and go. The glass is full of cracks, but it is still trying to keep itself together. It may be lucky this time. Somebody may notice it and take it home. It may not break after all. Love may fill the gaps. There is still a glimmer of hope. Until there is no hope left.

Animal shelters remind me of bloodshed. Those without guns don’t understand why those with guns decided to “clean the space.” When running from gunshots, no matter how hard you try to dodge them, it doesn’t take long to find the bullet that will stop you. Understanding what is going on inside the heads of those who are doing everything they can to erase you for good is as unlikely as spreading invisible wings and flying away. But I’m just a human who knows you can’t erase suffering. I’m just a human who wants nothing to do with humanity when a dog or cat is taken out of their cage and euthanized just for space. I often see that last walk, those eyes that beg for help, and I want to scream, “Stop, don’t do that!” I often want to take them home where I live with my other rescues in a packed-like-sardines fashion. Then I remember that in war, people killed people for territories they wanted to conquer, and it didn’t matter that bystanders begged for their lives. I almost died just for space, too. I was almost led to that last walk. But somebody, somewhere, took down the barriers that divide people’s hearts and saved me. For many others, help didn’t come in time. More than 10,000 people, including 1,601 children, died in Sarajevo. One thousand four hundred twenty-five days of siege was a long time—the longest in the twentieth century. Grenades didn’t discriminate. They landed in playgrounds, nursing homes, streets full of people, my home.

Animals are killed for space every day. I wish this frequent unfairness could help people understand topics they have no firsthand experience with, like negligence in childhood. Like discrimination in their own home. Like war. Like exile. I wish their lives could serve as a common ground for understanding pain that is not inevitable.

According to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (ASPCA), more than 1.5 million shelter animals are euthanized each year in the United States alone. I’ve visited some of the nation’s biggest shelters, and “space euthanasia” is the common denominator for all of them. Animals deserve to live and be happy. They can teach us so much about peace and unity and that the issue isn’t lack of space in the world but lack of space in human hearts. The less space we make for love, the more space we leave for destruction. The more space greed takes, the less space is left for compassion.

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Amazon link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G4QS2R16

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Author Snjezana Marinkovic

AUTHOR BIO

Snjezana is the author of eight books, including a children's book "Rocky and a Girl with a Curl", and co-author of three poetry chapbooks.

She holds degrees in creative writing, criminal justice, legal studies, and is a candidate for a doctorate in education.

Besides writing, she is passionate about rescuing street and shelter animals.

Connect with her and other rescue "warriors" at:

Instagram:

"Dogs Teach Love"

Facebook:

"Rocky and a Girl With a Curl"

"Urgent Death Row Dogs and Cats"

"Dogvengers Assemble"

"Stolen and Missing Pets of Texas"

"Spotting Spot-Lost Pets of Texas"

"Dead Dog Walking" Legacy"

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COMING SOON: On Monday, 12th January, our team member, author Eva Bielby, will be sharing Chapter 16 of her novel, 'The Hurt', first book of 'The Hurt' trilogy.