I have been in the shelter for many years, and I want to escape from this place. Not because it is unkind or cruel—no, the humans here do their best. They feed me, give me a safe corner to sleep, and speak gently when they pass by my kennel. But it’s not home. It’s not where my heart longs to be.
I remember the life I had before. I wasn’t always a shelter dog. I used to run freely in a big, open yard, chasing butterflies and basking in the sunlight. My human, a kind old man, would toss a ball for me and laugh when I brought it back, tail wagging furiously. We shared everything—his stories, his quiet moments, and even his sadness. I loved him with all my heart, and I believe he loved me just as much.
But one day, he didn’t come back. Strangers came instead, packing up his things and looking at me with pity. They brought me here, to the shelter, saying something about him being “gone.” I didn’t understand what that meant at the time. I waited by the door for days, hoping he’d come for me. But he never did.
The shelter was overwhelming at first. The noise of barking dogs, the smell of fear, and the constant reminder that I was no longer someone’s dog—it all weighed heavily on me. I would press myself into the corner of my kennel, trying to disappear. The humans tried to comfort me, but I wasn’t ready to trust again.
As the years passed, I saw many come and go. Families with wide smiles and hopeful eyes would walk through the rows of kennels, looking for their perfect companion. I would watch them, my heart leaping with hope each time someone paused by my door. But they always moved on, their eyes settling on younger, livelier dogs.
I’ve heard them say I’m “too old” or “too quiet.” Some even say I look “too sad.” Maybe they’re right—I’ve lost the energy I once had, and my eyes no longer sparkle with the innocence of youth. But inside, I still carry the same love, the same loyalty, the same longing to belong to someone.
On nights when the shelter is quiet, I dream of the life I wish for. I imagine a cozy home with a soft bed by the fire. I imagine gentle hands scratching behind my ears and a kind voice calling my name. I imagine running through the grass again, feeling the wind in my fur, and knowing that I am loved.
I have made friends here—other dogs who share my longing, and kind humans who do their best to make us feel cared for. But it’s not the same. This place, no matter how well-intentioned, feels like a waiting room for lives that may never begin again.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever leave. If I’ll ever feel the warmth of a home again. But I refuse to give up hope. I refuse to believe that my story ends here, behind these bars.
I want to escape this place—not to run away, but to run toward something better. Toward someone who will see past my gray muzzle and tired eyes, and see the heart that still beats with love.
Until that day comes, I’ll keep waiting. I’ll keep dreaming. Because hope is all I have left, and it’s the one thing they can’t take away from me.
