I don’t know exactly how old I am in human years, but I do know today was supposed to be my birthday. It’s the day my old owner, the one who left me, used to celebrate. He would pat my head and say, “Happy birthday, boy!” while handing me a treat. There’d be a warm smile on his face, and I’d wag my tail so hard it felt like it might fall off. But that was before.
Now, I live alone, wandering the streets and alleys of this big, cold city. No collar, no name tag—just me and the hope that maybe one day, someone might notice me and take me home. But today, as I curled up on a damp piece of cardboard under an old bridge, I realized that hope was fading.
The morning started like every other. I woke up to the sound of cars rushing by overhead and the faint smell of garbage wafting from a nearby bin. My stomach growled, and I dragged myself up, sniffing around for scraps. The streets were busy with people rushing to wherever they needed to be, but none of them stopped to look at me. Not that I blamed them—I must have looked a mess, with my matted fur and tired eyes.
As the day went on, I kept thinking about how it used to be. My birthday was a special day back then. I’d get a new toy, a warm meal, and most importantly, lots of hugs and belly rubs. My tail wagged at the memory, but it quickly stilled when reality sank in. Those days were gone.
By noon, the sun was high, and I was thirsty. I found a puddle near a park and lapped at the muddy water. A group of kids played nearby, their laughter echoing through the air. I watched them for a while, my heart aching. I used to love playing fetch with my owner. The thought made my chest feel heavy, so I turned away and continued walking.
As the evening approached, the streets began to empty. People were heading home, carrying bags filled with groceries or gifts. I wondered if anyone would think of me, if anyone even noticed I was here. I found a quiet corner behind a closed bakery and settled down. The scent of freshly baked bread lingered in the air, teasing my empty stomach.
For a moment, I imagined what it would be like if things were different. If someone brought me home tonight, gave me a bath, and wrapped me in a warm blanket. Maybe they’d light a small candle and let me have a piece of cake. It didn’t have to be fancy—I’d be happy with just a crumb if it meant feeling loved again.
But the hours ticked by, and no one came. The world moved on without me, and the loneliness wrapped itself around me like a cold fog. I rested my head on my paws and stared at the darkening sky. “Happy birthday,” I whispered to myself, though the words felt hollow.
The night grew colder, and I curled up tighter, trying to keep warm. A tear slid down my fur-covered cheek, though I didn’t know dogs could cry. Maybe it wasn’t a tear—maybe it was just the weight of everything I had lost.
As I drifted off to sleep, a soft voice interrupted my thoughts. “Hey there, buddy. Are you all alone?” I opened my eyes to see a kind face peering down at me. It was a woman holding a blanket and a bag of food. Her eyes were warm, and her smile reminded me of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.
She knelt down and gently placed the blanket over me. “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said softly, as if she somehow knew. She handed me a small piece of chicken from her bag, and for the first time in what felt like forever, my tail wagged. It wasn’t much, but in that moment, it was everything.
Maybe I wasn’t completely forgotten after all. Maybe birthdays could still hold a little magic, even for a stray like me.
