Today is my special day. I wonder if anyone will wish a blind dog like me a happy birthday. I can’t see the world, but I feel it in other ways—through my nose, my ears, and the soft fur that I can still feel beneath my paws. My world is different, quieter, but it’s still mine, and today, it’s my birthday.
I remember a time when I could see, when the world was filled with colors and shapes. There were days when I would chase butterflies in the yard, my tail wagging in excitement as I ran after them. The sunlight would warm my fur, and I could see my owner’s smile as they called me in from the garden. But that was before everything changed.
I don’t remember exactly when I lost my sight. It was a slow fade, the world blurring around me until one day, it was just gone. The bright colors of the flowers, the familiar faces, the playful games—all of it slipped away, and I was left in a world of darkness. But I didn’t let it defeat me. I learned to navigate this new world without sight. My nose became my guide, my ears sharper, and I learned to trust my other senses. I still felt love, still felt joy, even if I couldn’t see the faces of those who loved me.
Today, as I lie on the soft bed that my owner made for me, I think back to all the birthdays I’ve had. I remember the treats, the toys, the gentle pats on the head, and the birthday songs that filled the air. I used to wag my tail so hard in excitement when I heard them sing to me, my heart swelling with happiness because I knew I was loved. But now, everything feels quieter, lonelier. My owner is still here, but they’ve been distant lately, their attention divided. I’ve heard them talking on the phone, saying things like “He’s just not the same anymore” or “Maybe we should think about what’s best for him.” I don’t know what that means, but it makes me feel small and unimportant.
As I lay here, I listen to the sounds of the house—the soft ticking of the clock, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of cars passing by outside. It’s all so quiet. I can’t see the decorations or the cake, but I can imagine them. I can feel the warmth of the love my owner still has for me, even if it’s harder for me to find my way around these days.
I wonder if anyone else will remember today. My ears perk up when I hear the doorbell ring, and for a moment, I think someone might be here to celebrate with me. But when the door opens, it’s just the mailman, delivering a package I can’t see. He doesn’t notice me lying in the corner. He doesn’t know it’s my birthday.
I wonder if anyone will remember. I wonder if my friends, the ones I used to play with in the yard, will come and wish me well. I wonder if the neighbors will stop by with a treat, or if the people who used to pat my head will remember that today is a day for me. I wonder if anyone will say, “Happy Birthday, sweet dog,” and give me the attention I crave, the kind of attention I used to get.
But the hours pass, and no one comes. The house is still quiet, and my birthday feels like just another day. It’s hard not to feel invisible in moments like this, as though my world has become smaller and smaller, shrinking with each passing year. But even though I can’t see the world, I know it’s still there. I know there are still people who care, even if I can’t always feel their presence.
I lay my head down on my bed and close my eyes, not because I need to, but because sometimes, in the quietest moments, I like to imagine what the world would look like if I could see it again. I imagine a world full of colorful flowers, green fields, and faces full of love and laughter. And even though I can’t see it, I can still feel it in my heart.
So, today, on my special day, I’ll try not to be sad. I’ll remember the joy I’ve had in my life, the love I’ve given and received. And even if no one says it out loud, I’ll tell myself, “Happy Birthday, sweet dog.” I may be blind, but I’m still here, still loving, still living in my own special way. And for that, I’m thankful.
