I wasn’t always aware that I looked different. When I was a puppy, I didn’t know that my face made people stop and stare — not in admiration, but in discomfort. I didn’t understand why children turned away or why some adults whispered things like, “Poor thing… what happened to it?”
All I knew was that I wanted to be loved. I wanted someone to hold me, play with me, and tell me I was a good dog.
But that’s not what I got.
You see, I was born with a facial deformity. The left side of my face didn’t grow like the right. My jaw is crooked, one eye sits lower than the other, and my snout twists oddly to one side. Some say I look scary. Some say I look like a “monster.” And I hear them — even when they think I don’t understand.
At the shelter, I’ve been here longer than I can remember. Dogs come and go. They get adopted after a few days, sometimes even a few hours. I watch from behind the bars as smiling families pass my cage. They point at the fluffy ones, the playful ones, the ones with perfect faces.
They never stop at me.
Once, a little girl peeked into my kennel. I wagged my tail as hard as I could. Hope surged in my chest. But her mother gasped and quickly pulled her away. “Don’t look at that one,” she said. “It’s not right.”
I went back to the corner of my cage and curled into a ball. I stayed quiet. Sometimes I wonder… If I had been born beautiful, would I already be in a home? Would I be sleeping on a warm bed instead of cold concrete? Would someone kiss my crooked head and say, “I love you, just as you are”?
I know I’m not beautiful. I see it in their eyes. But what hurts more than how I look is the feeling that no one wants to look past it. No one gives me a chance to show that inside, I’m just like every other dog. I love. I feel. I hope.
Even now, I still wag my tail when I hear footsteps approaching. I still sit up straight when someone enters the shelter, even though I know they’ll probably pass me by.
But I can’t help it. I still believe — somehow — that one day, someone will stop. Someone will look into my eyes and see more than the twisted skin, more than the scars. They’ll see my heart. They’ll see the soul of a dog who’s waited too long to be loved.
And maybe… just maybe… they’ll choose me.
Until then, I’ll wait. With my ugly, deformed face. With my quiet hope.
Because even the unwanted deserve to be loved.
