Since the day I was born, I haven’t been whole. I want to walk like a normal dog, but I can’t. My legs were weak and twisted from the start, and while my siblings stumbled clumsily across the floor toward our mother, I struggled just to keep up. I dragged myself with all the strength my front legs could offer, hoping that maybe, somehow, I could be like them. But I was always behind—always different. As I grew, it became clearer to everyone that I wasn’t like the other puppies. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t play like they did. People who visited the shelter would smile at the others, pick them up, laugh as they wagged their perfect tails. But when they came to my corner, their expressions changed. Some looked away, others frowned in pity, and a few simply said, “He’s not adoptable.” I didn’t fully understand what those words meant, but I felt the coldness in their absence, the heaviness in being left behind again and again. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. My brothers and sisters all found homes. I remained, lying quietly on my thin blanket, watching the door, still wagging my tail each time it opened, still hoping. Then one day, someone walked in who didn’t look at me with pity or sadness. She knelt down, looked me in the eyes, and said softly, “Hi, sweetheart.” There was no hesitation in her voice, no judgment in her gaze. She saw me—not the legs that didn’t work, not the label the world had given me—but me. She brought me home. For the first time, I had a bed that smelled like warmth, meals that came with gentle hands, and a name that meant I belonged. And then one morning, she brought home something strange—small wheels and straps. She called it my wheelchair. At first, I was scared. My body had known only dragging and stillness. But with her encouragement, I tried. Step by step, wheel by wheel, I began to move. And then, I ran. Not like other dogs, not with four strong legs, but with my own rhythm—my ears flapping in the wind, my heart soaring. I chased butterflies. I rolled through grass. I barked at the sky. I was finally free. Some people still stare. Some still whisper. But I don’t mind anymore. Because I have someone who loves me not in spite of my differences, but because of them. My legs may never work like theirs, but my heart has learned to run. And even though I came into this world broken, I now live every day whole—with joy, with hope, and with a love I never thought I would find. I may never walk like a normal dog, but I have learned that love doesn’t care how many steps you can take. It only cares that you keep trying.
