"My Journey Through Life: Young Adulthood" Part 4

One night, during yet another countryside party with at least twenty people there, a group of us decided to drive to the store. On the way, the girl sitting next to me — Sam's older sister — suddenly shouted, "Stop! Stop!"

Right there, in the middle of the road, in total darkness, lay a tiny ginger kitten with bloody back legs. We stopped the car and got out to take a look. Sam’s sister started begging the guys to take him with us, saying he wouldn’t survive until morning otherwise. They tried to talk her out of it — saying that no vet would see him until the next day anyway, and he’d die either way, so better not to touch him.

Eventually, she convinced them — mainly by arguing that there was a vet in our group, even if he wasn’t currently working in his field.

So we returned with the kitten. In proper lighting, it became clear that the skin on the kitten’s hind legs had been completely torn off. You could see the tendons and bones — it was terrifying. While our so-called “vet friend” — let’s call him that — wrapped the kitten’s legs, he said the chances were slim. After all, there were twenty completely drunk people around — who would take care of him until morning?

Guess who volunteered? Not Sam’s sister, whose compassion lasted only long enough to pick the kitten off the road. Everything else fell on my shoulders.

I made a little makeshift pen for the kitten to keep him from hurting himself by falling off something. I gave him food and water and watched over him alone.

In the morning, the first thing I did was check on him — he was alive and looking surprisingly lively. I brought him out into the sun in his little pen while I ate breakfast and packed up, keeping an eye on him the whole time.

At some point, I saw the kitten playing and jumping around in the sun as if his legs weren’t injured at all.

I asked our “vet friend” what to do next, and he said that if we left the kitten here, he would 100% die.

I clearly remember going into the house, locking myself in one of the empty rooms, calling my mom, and bursting into tears. I told her what had happened, stuttering through sobs, and that I didn’t know what to do. My mom was shocked that in a group that large, no one was willing to help.

I begged her to let me bring the kitten home and promised we’d figure something out from there.

But here’s the kicker — not a single guy from the group agreed to drive us. Nik said, “I’m not putting that filthy, flea-ridden thing in my clean car.” I even offered to cover the floor and seat with plastic bags, but nope. Everyone just bailed.

I can't put into words how bitter and painful it felt — as if this kitten was nothing more than trash to them, like his life meant absolutely nothing. (Mind you, all these people had pets — all purebreds, of course. The kind who’d never adopt from a shelter.)

Most people had already left. Nik calmly left me there alone with the kitten. The only ones who hadn’t gone yet were our “vet friend” and his girlfriend — and thank god he acted like a decent human being. He let us ride with him. To this day, I’m so grateful — otherwise I would’ve been stranded there, completely lost.

I asked to be dropped off in the city center so I could go straight to a vet clinic.

I remember how much stuff I had with me — badminton rackets, tennis gear, a heavy bag full of things
 and now, a kitten in my arms.

Physically, it was really hard to carry everything with one hand while trying not to drop the tiny kitten from the other.

But I made it to the clinic. The vet examined him, prescribed medicine, ointment, rebandaged the legs — and that was it. I asked if they had any paid boarding option, but they said they didn’t have a facility like that. So once again, I found myself out on the street, alone with my stuff — and the kitten.

There was no Uber, no Bolt, no modern conveniences for calling a cab — I had to call a dispatch service and wait ages.

At home, my mom and I started brainstorming. We couldn’t bring the kitten inside — we already had several animals, and he needed treatment for parasites, fleas, etc. But we had nowhere to keep him.

I called Sam’s sister and told her: "You were the one who pushed for rescuing him, you didn’t help me at all — now talk your parents into letting you take him temporarily until his legs heal and I find him a permanent home."

Later, she called back and said her parents agreed. So my mom and I brought him over.

Sam’s family had a large house and plenty of space, unlike ours, so isolating the kitten from their other animals wasn’t a problem.

Of course, they eventually got attached and decided to keep him — which made me so happy.

I’ll post the only two photos I have of that kitten — unfortunately, he’s no longer alive.

From that moment on, I decided — never again would I rely on anyone else in situations like this. If an animal needs help, I’ll be ready.

One day, while scrolling through VK, I saw a post from a shelter I’d been following. They were looking for volunteers to come to the dog shelter to clean kennels, brush the dogs, wash bowls, and walk them — because they were understaffed.

I messaged a friend and asked if she wanted to go with me — she agreed.

The shelter was 15 km outside of Dnipro and hidden away from dog hunters. They had to relocate after bad people poisoned dogs by throwing toxins over the fence — one incident killed a large number of dogs. There’s still a small makeshift memorial there for them.

The only person I could ask to drive us was Nik — which of course fed his ego, knowing that I "couldn't do anything without him." He always loved that. Surprisingly, he agreed — because he had no idea what the road to the shelter looked like. (Or rather, the total lack of a road. 😅) I remember that he never drove there again — after that, my dad started lending me his car so I could go on my own.

We drove through fields, on dirt tracks — there wasn’t even a path. In the winter, not even a tractor could get through. To this day, the shelter is cut off from civilization every winter.

I remember once in the fall I got stuck in the mud — couldn’t drive further, so I left the car where it was and walked for ages through the muck to reach the shelter.

That was my very first day there. They gave us a tour, explained everything. At the time, there were no kennels, no paved paths — just 500 dogs running freely around the grounds, knocking visitors over with excitement, desperate for attention and belly rubs.

Of course, Nik refused to do anything. When a tiny dog bit him (and I swear there wasn’t even a mark), he threw a fit. Tanya, one of the shelter workers, said it was the first time any dog had ever bitten someone there. And my friend chimed in: “Animals sense what kind of person someone is.”

And I can confirm — in all the years that followed, I never saw another bite incident there.

I remember one malamute who’d been surrendered because he’d bitten a family member. He was kept on a tether away from the others.

Of course, I didn’t know that đŸ€Ł So when I saw a new dog, I approached him to say hi. He wagged his tail excitedly. I petted his belly, sprayed him with water, and he seemed to love it.

After a while, Tanya saw us and was shocked. 😅 She told me that no one besides her had ever been able to get near him — everyone else was scared. He’d never let anyone else close.

He didn’t seem aggressive to me at all.

They tried to rehome him a few more times, but he kept being returned after biting someone again. So he stayed in the shelter — and he’s still there to this day.

I’ll post his photo in the carousel — he honestly looks like a softie who couldn’t bite anything 😅

After a while, I sort of became the “official photographer” for the shelter. I’d come to take pictures of the dogs who were looking for homes — portraits that would help them get adopted.

(And by the way, the shelter even had two rescued donkeys living there! đŸ„ș)

Then I started going with the team to city adoption events — we called them “campaigns.”

We’d set up these little makeshift islands right in the middle of the city: banners on stands, leaflets about the shelter, and a few pups and kittens dressed up in little outfits, sitting in crates.

People would come, read, ask questions, sometimes fall in love with someone furry and take them home. We’d also collect donations to keep the shelter going.

One morning, on the way to one of these events, I was walking down the street and heard a noise behind a dumpster I was passing. I stopped, peeked behind it — and there he was. A tiny puppy, trying to chew on a plastic bag.

As soon as he saw me, he ran over wagging his tail, so excited, so full of love. Just waiting for someone to give him a little bit of it back.

I can’t explain how hard it was to walk away — in Ukraine, sadly, you can’t walk even a few meters without seeing stray animals. But this baby
 he had this innocence, this softness in him, like the world hadn’t hurt him yet. I felt like my legs had sunk into wet cement with every step I tried to take away from him.

The further I walked, the louder the voice inside me screamed, “You can’t leave him.”

I called Marina, the shelter director, and explained the situation. I knew the shelter didn’t have space for healthy animals — only the wounded, sick, and dying. There just wasn’t enough money.

But I begged her anyway, said maybe we’d find him a home fast. And bless her soul, she said yes.

(I swear, Marina is one of the kindest humans I’ve ever met.)

I ran back to the dumpster, praying he was still there — but he was gone. My heart shattered. I blamed myself for not calling sooner.

I searched nearby, called out, but nothing. So I walked to the event heartbroken.

And then
 I heard the sweetest, tiniest “woof!”

I turned around — and he was running toward me!

Oh my God, I scooped him up, grinning like a maniac and ran to the campaign with him in my arms.

We dressed him up, made him part of the team — and yep, someone adopted him. Not just anyone — a family from abroad!

I’ll never forget that day.

(There’s a photo of him and me together in the carousel too 💛)

We spent half the day at one location, then packed up and moved to another.

Standing in the blazing summer heat all day was exhausting — but once evening rolled in and the sun began to set, it became more bearable
 even kind of magical.

I remember one time two older women passed by us. They slowed down, looked at our setup with the animals and posters, rolled their eyes, and muttered with disdain:

“Don’t you have anything better to do? You should be helping sick children instead.”

And off they went, heads high, proud of their little jab.

I was furious.

I turned to Alesya — the heart of the “Cat House” (that’s what we called the cat shelter she ran on the other side of the city). She was one of the core women who made up our whole “Friend” shelter team — Marina handled the dogs, Alesya the cats.

I asked her:

“How can you stay calm when people say things like that? How do you just let it go?”

And Alesya said something I’ll never forget:

“Because we know the truth. People who say things like that don’t help anyone — not animals, not children. No one. They just criticize the ones who do.”

I kept thinking about her words for a long time after that.

One evening we had another event planned, this time scheduled late on purpose — the daytime heat had become unbearable. I spent the day at Nik’s house, as usual back then.

In the evening, we drove to the city center where I was supposed to help the shelter girls set up. Nik had plans to meet Sam and Bobby — right nearby, on the same promenade where the event was taking place.

We arrived and parked next to the shelter van. The girls were already unloading posters and folding stands.

Nik stepped out of the car, took one glance — and, without offering to help, said he’d go find the guys and disappeared.

So I stayed. Helped the girls carry stuff. Made multiple trips, hauling everything to the event spot — it was physically exhausting. And of course, no one expected Nik to help. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

During one of our walks from the van to the location — this time carrying crates with cats inside — Marina and I were walking a bit ahead. Behind us, about 10 meters back, were Nik, Sam, and Bobby, strolling slowly, chatting.

Marina turned to me and asked,

“Is that your boyfriend?”

I said, “Yeah.”

She paused, looked at me, and said very directly:

“If your man’s embarrassed by you being a volunteer
 and can’t even bother to help
 you should tell that kind of man to f*ck off.”

I nodded. And I agreed. I was ashamed in front of them. But deep down, I wasn’t surprised. I knew Nik better than anyone else on this planet.

There were a few times Nik helped. Like when we had an emergency call about a dog hit by a car. I’d get the location, pick up the animal, rush it to the clinic — and then coordinate with a volunteer or a vet for follow-up care and transfer to the shelter.

Sometimes, there was simply no one else available. No drivers, no volunteers. Just me.

And if I begged enough, Nik would agree — though I always had to pay for his gas. Still, I was grateful. Better this than nothing.

Eventually, I started handling urgent calls on my own — ordering taxis when I couldn’t drive.

Of course, I had to hide the truth from the taxi drivers. Can’t exactly say,

“Hi, we’re going to rescue a feral street dog with a severed leg — could you please wait while I catch her?”

One time I was lucky — I was chasing a dog through a field, and the taxi driver joined me. He didn’t flinch when we put the injured animal in his back seat. A true gem of a human. I’ll never forget him.

That’s what animal rescue looked like in Ukraine.

No official services. No government support. Just regular people — like me — figuring it out as we went. And honestly
 I still don’t understand how we did it all. How we found the strength. How we weren’t afraid.

Now I use proper cat traps (borrowed from another shelter), I have my own car, the whole city knows me, and — best of all — I have a wonderful husband who helps me with everything.

We’ve become a little rescue team of our own 💛

Once, we were called to remove a dog from a nightmare situation — a family of alcoholic parents with three filthy, skinny children.

The husband had chopped off his dog’s leg with an axe while drunk. The dog then spent a whole week lying like that in their yard before they decided — maybe — to ask the shelter for help. They didn’t have money for a vet (though somehow there was always money for booze).

By the time we got there, the stump was badly infected, the smell unbearable. But the dog survived. She was treated, operated on, and eventually recovered.

After the rescue, the woman from that household started harassing the shelter nonstop. Calling, messaging, even from different numbers, demanding we return “her” dog.

I remember — I was sick in bed at the time, just wanting to rest, and she wouldn’t stop calling until I finally picked up and gave her a piece of my mind. Laid it all out, clearly and calmly — with every ounce of righteous fire I had left in me.

Now I know exactly what to do in emergencies. I know the protocol. I can assess injuries, call the right people, make decisions fast.

And sometimes I look back and wonder:

Who was that girl?

The girl who couldn’t even bring herself to leave a boyfriend who beat her
I don’t know.

But I’m thankful to her. Because she never gave up when it mattered most.

If someone had told that younger version of me — the girl running through mud, carrying broken kittens in one hand and heavy bags in the other — that one day she’d be featured in a major German newspaper, I wouldn’t have believed them. But that’s exactly what happened.

Nine years later, Der Tagesspiegel printed a story:

“Photographer Anastasia Mihaylova — the volunteer who rescues animals.”

But that’s a story for another month.

Because right after that — Oliver appeared in my life.

Besides Sam, Bobby, and Jack (his school friends), Nick had two more friends who lived nearby — they basically grew up together. And one of them was Oliver.

Oliver had long moved to Kyiv for school and lived there, not in Dnipro, but whenever he came to visit, they always had these wild “get-togethers.” And one day, Nick took me with him — and that’s when everything started.

Before that, I had only seen Oliver once — when Nick and I went to Kyiv (that was actually my first time ever visiting the capital). Nick introduced me to Oliver. We walked around, explored Kyiv — it was a great time.

I remember we were walking up to a viewpoint, and I spotted a single poppy flower growing on the hillside, hidden among the tall grass. I said, “Oh look, there’s a poppy over there — how beautiful.”

And you know what Oliver did? He ran up the hill without a word, picked the flower, came back, and gave it to me. (To be honest, I still don’t know how he dared do that right in front of Nick, and how Nick didn’t react.) But that one simple gesture shocked me so much, it felt like he had handed me a whole airplane 😅

The next time we saw each other was at that party.

But all this time, we occasionally chatted on VKontakte. Of course, Nick had no idea — because I obsessively deleted every single message from Oliver. (I used to check Nick’s phone too, so I knew he also often deleted his chats.)

Back then, there wasn’t even anything romantic in our conversations — but just having such a chat would’ve been more than enough for Nick to explode.

Oliver’s friends once invited everyone over. At first, everyone was hanging out and drinking on the first floor, but after a while, people started moving upstairs to the billiard room on the top floor — third or fourth, I think. Most of the guys there trained in MMA, and they arranged a little tournament right on the floor — pair by pair. In the end, the last two strongest ones left were Nick and Oliver. (I remember standing there watching and silently rooting for Oliver.)

And I think
 they tied. Then it was just me, Nick, Oliver, and his friend left in the room. We all went outside for a smoke — it was winter, freezing cold. After everyone finished smoking, Nick and Oliver’s friend went upstairs to join the others, and Oliver and I said we’d smoke another one and come after. But we didn’t.

After that smoke, Oliver and I went back into the house and into the first room. We were talking, teasing each other
 but we both knew exactly what was going on. And to be honest — that wild pull between us was almost impossible to resist. (And no, I’m not trying to justify anything.) We were both tipsy and way bolder because of it đŸ€Ł And somehow, it just happened — we were already touching, gently stroking each other, both silent.

Of course, it didn’t go further than that — if Nick had walked into that room, there would’ve definitely been at least one dead body 😅 At some point, we realized we’d been in there way too long — it would start to look suspicious. So, before heading upstairs, we went outside for another cigarette.

And that’s when Oliver looked at me and said: “Nick doesn’t deserve you.”

That was the first time anyone from his circle had said something like that. And when I heard it, I was literally speechless 😅

And if, just a minute later, the front door hadn’t opened and Nick hadn’t shown up — we definitely would’ve kissed. But in that exact second, we both jumped back from each other — and for a moment, we thought he saw everything and figured it out. But thank God, he was too drunk and too clueless to connect the dots.

When the party ended and we came back to Nick’s house late at night, Nick went to the bathroom, and while he was in there, Oliver and I were texting. When I heard the water shut off, I quickly deleted the whole thread and put the phone screen-down on the table.

Nick walked into the room, and literally seconds later, my phone vibrated — Oliver had messaged me. And right then I knew — I was screwed. I just prayed that whatever he sent didn’t give us away.

Nick asked, “Who the fuck is texting you in the middle of the night?” and went to grab my phone. Honestly, I don’t even remember exactly what Oliver had written — something like “good night,” maybe. But even that was enough to set Nick off.

He snapped: “Why the fuck is Oliver messaging you and wishing you anything at all?”

I told him it was nothing, we were just talking, and I turned to walk away. That’s when Nick suddenly grabbed my arm — just above the wrist — and squeezed it so hard, bruises instantly popped up (yes, bruises were a permanent bonus with him).

Then he barked: “What the hell were you doing downstairs alone with him all that time while everyone else was upstairs?”

And
 well, you already know the drill. He freaked out, I fought back, and it all kicked off again. It got so bad, even his mom and grandma came running in to break it up. His mom was so shaken by what she saw, her heart started acting up. I said I was calling a taxi and going home (even though I knew I couldn’t go home like that — there was no way I could make up a convincing story for why I showed up alone at 4AM in that state).

But Nick’s mom locked the door and wouldn’t let me leave. She said we’d sleep in separate rooms until morning. Nick flat-out refused to sleep on the couch downstairs — so I went.

And of course, he slept like a baby in his cozy bed as if nothing had happened. Me? I couldn’t sleep at all from the stress. There wasn’t even a pillow or blanket — I slept in my coat because it was freezing.

The next morning, I went home. Later, I told Nick what had happened that night — that we had to be more careful, because I’m the one who pays for our “mistakes.”

I sent him a photo of my bruised arm. And that’s when Oliver found out the full truth about Nick. I told him who Nick really was — the part almost nobody else had ever seen, but that I had seen
 every single day.

And month after month went by like that. While Oliver was still in Kyiv, we kept texting constantly. When I was at uni or just not around Nick — our messages started looking more and more like love letters.

And Oliver even donated money to the shelter when I showed him animals in need.

I want you to understand: at that time, this connection was my lifeline. That crush gave me new strength. It reminded me that maybe — just maybe — I did still deserve to be treated well, to be loved, to be admired. I had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Whenever Oliver came to Dnipro — of course, I was always there with Nick.

And it was so nerve-wracking when we’d all be sitting at a table together, and Oliver would secretly touch my leg under the table, or briefly brush my hand when we walked — just for a second, just when Nick wasn’t looking. (Not that Nick looked much anyway — his “boys” were always more important than I was, and he never even tried to hide that.) We tried to see each other alone — without anyone noticing — but it was incredibly hard to pull off, especially since Oliver didn’t live in Dnipro.

The first time we actually managed to meet one-on-one —happened almost a full year after that party. I had to come up with this really careful plan: So my parents would think I was with Nick, and Nick would think I was home. That day, I told Nick I needed to stay home to study for my French exam. But I was still nervous he might try to “check” if I was really there — he had threatened to do that many times before, and maybe he had, who knows.

He could’ve easily called my mom, and she was terrible at lying — she kept tabs on everyone and everything.

So I told her the truth: that I wanted to see a friend — someone Nick hated. And I asked her not to tell him I wasn’t home if he called. It was hard dodging all her questions, but I managed.

Oliver and I met on a street near my house — because if Nick came to check and saw Oliver’s car, he’d know everything instantly. Anyway, after just that one meeting, we totally lost our minds 😅 It felt like some wild, head-spinning first love — we literally couldn’t pull away from each other for even a second. But I couldn’t let it go beyond kisses. So that’s how things stayed.

Most of the time, we just texted.

And for two years, Nick had no idea.That’s how careful I was 😅

Of course, once Oliver learned everything about Nick —he didn’t want to be friends with him anymore. As far as I know, they haven’t seen each other for 8 or 9 years now.

Oliver’s the only one from Nick’s entire circle — his “boys” — who cut him off completely. Everyone else still talks to him. As far as I know.

That doesn’t make Oliver some kind of saint. We did talk about it — how wrong it was that he was seeing his friend’s girlfriend behind his back, and then everyone hung out together like nothing was happening.

But the truth is — I never felt guilty for a single second. Not toward Nick. First, because he constantly flirted with girls when I wasn’t around. And second — because I genuinely wished he didn’t exist.

I told him —“People like you are why this world is full of violence and suffering. People like you shouldn’t be born.”

And while he tried to hit me, I screamed that back at him — just as many times as he screamed his own filth at me.

So no, I don’t feel guilty. Not now. Not ever.

If I feel guilt — it’s only toward myself. For getting involved with people like that. For letting them treat me that way. But when I feel that guilt creeping in, I immediately remind myself — that this experience made me who I am now.

It was the fire that forged a stronger version of me. It was the catalyst for change — the moment I started fighting back against my borderline (which I didn’t even know I had at the time, haha), and started changing my life.

But we’ll get to that later 😅

Much later, I’ll tell Nick the truth about Oliver.

But that’ll be when we’ve already moved to live together in Warsaw.

I also run a Patreon page for the shelter, where I share our rescue stories, daily life with the animals, and how we fight for every little tail.

If you feel touched by what we do and want to support the shelter — even a little help means the world to us:

👉 patreon.com/ShelterFriendUkraine

Thank you for being here, for reading, and for caring đŸŸđŸ’›