The bustling street is a blur of colors and sounds, a symphony of human life that I can only observe from the periphery. I lie here, tucked close to the base of a vendor’s cart, hoping to go unnoticed, yet painfully aware of every glance. When they see me, their eyes narrow, their lips sometimes curl. They look at me with disdain. Am I really that ugly?
My fur, once a hopeful patch of tawny gold, is now matted and stained, crusted with the dirt of countless forgotten alleys. One of my ears is permanently bent, a testament to a long-ago fight I barely survived. My tail, usually a hopeful little flick, is often tucked tight between my legs, a silent shield against their judging eyes. I see the other dogs, the ones with glossy coats and bright ribbons, held close by their humans, showered with gentle touches and soft words. Their beauty is praised, their presence welcomed.
But when they look at me, their faces harden. I hear the quick shooing sounds, the sharp intake of breath. Sometimes, a child will point, their laughter quickly hushed by an adult’s stern voice. Do they think my matted fur carries something unclean? Do they see the scars and imagine a monster, not a weary heart?
I try to make myself small, to disappear into the shadows. I don’t want to bother anyone. I just want a moment of peace, a fleeting glance that holds kindness instead of contempt. The hunger gnaws at my belly, a constant ache, but the emptiness in my heart is far more profound. It’s the ache of being invisible, of being judged solely on what I look like, not on the gentle spirit I keep hidden deep inside.
I’ve seen my reflection in the murky puddles after a rain, a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt, tired face staring back. I see the dullness of my coat, the weariness in my eyes, the slight tremble in my body. And if that’s what I see, then I can only imagine what they must see. Is it truly so repulsive that it warrants such a look? Such a turning away?
I long for a warm hand, a soft stroke, a voice that whispers words of comfort instead of dismissal. I dream of a place where my appearance doesn’t matter, where my heart is seen for what it is—a heart that just wants to love and be loved in return. But out here, on this bustling street, under their disdainful gazes, the question echoes, sharp and cold: Am I really that ugly? And the silence that follows is my only answer.
