I don’t remember when I became a stray dog, I just know it’s been a long time. The streets have been my home for as long as I can recall. Every corner, every crack in the pavement, every patch of grass has a story—though none of them feel like they belong to me. My memories blur together like faded pictures, and the comfort of a real home feels like a distant dream, one that slips further away every time I try to hold onto it.
There was a time, long ago, when I wasn’t alone. I had a family, though their faces have started to fade from my mind. I try to remember what it felt like to sleep in a warm bed, to hear the sound of my human’s laughter, to feel the gentle strokes of hands across my fur. But those memories are like whispers in the wind—soft, fleeting, impossible to grasp.
I don’t know how it happened, how I ended up here, wandering through these streets with no destination in mind. Maybe I was lost. Maybe I was abandoned. Or maybe one day, the door simply didn’t open for me, and I realized no one was coming back. I tried to find my way home at first. I retraced my steps, sniffing at every familiar scent, hoping it would lead me back. But each path led nowhere, and eventually, I gave up. My home was no longer mine, and I was no longer theirs.
Days turned into nights, and the seasons changed. I learned how to survive on my own, though survival is a cruel teacher. Every scrap of food I found became a treasure. Every raindrop that soaked my fur reminded me of how cold the world can be. There were nights when I shivered beneath the dark sky, my belly aching with hunger, and my heart heavy with loneliness. But no one came. No one ever came.
I’ve met other strays along the way—dogs like me who have been forgotten by the world. Some stay for a while, sharing the warmth of their bodies as we huddle together for safety. Others drift away, disappearing into the endless streets, never to be seen again. I wonder where they go. Do they find a better life? Or do they, too, become just another shadow in the night?
Sometimes, kind humans offer me scraps of food or a gentle pat on the head. I appreciate it, of course, but it never lasts. They have homes to return to, families waiting for them. And I, well, I don’t belong anywhere anymore. I am just a fleeting presence in their lives, a moment of pity before they move on, back to their warm houses and soft beds.
The hardest part isn’t the hunger or the cold. It’s the emptiness. The feeling that I don’t matter. That no one is looking for me, that no one misses me. I wander these streets, day after day, hoping—just hoping—that maybe, somewhere out there, someone remembers me. Maybe one day, I’ll hear a familiar voice calling my name, and I’ll run toward them, my heart bursting with the hope that I’m finally going home.
But deep down, I know it’s unlikely. Whoever I was before, whoever loved me, they’re gone now. I am a stray, a dog without a past, without a future. I exist in the spaces between, not belonging to anyone or anything.
On particularly hard days, I wonder how much longer I can keep going. How many more empty streets I can walk, how many more nights I can endure the cold. But then, something inside me pushes me forward. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s instinct. Or maybe it’s just the simple desire to keep living, to find one more scrap of food, to see one more sunrise.
I don’t remember when I became a stray dog, but I’ve learned that being a stray doesn’t mean I’ve lost my worth. I still have my strength, my courage, and the will to survive. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
If you ever see me on the streets, remember that I wasn’t always this way. I had a life once, a home. And though I may not belong to anyone now, I still dream of the day when I will. Until then, I will keep walking, keep searching, and keep hoping that somewhere, somehow, a place is waiting for me—a place where I can finally be more than just a stray.
