Hello, friend. My name is Rusty, though no one has ever called me by name until recently. I don’t have a soft, fluffy coat or bright, innocent eyes that make people go “aww.” My face is scarred, my fur is patchy, and my ears are torn from fights I never wanted to be a part of. I know I’m not what you’d call “cute.” And because of that, I’ve spent most of my life invisible to the world.
I wasn’t always like this. I once had a home, or at least a place I thought was home. I was a lively puppy, full of energy and excitement. My tail wagged at the slightest bit of attention. My owner, a man with a gruff voice but kind hands, seemed to like me at first. He called me a good boy and fed me scraps from his table. I thought we were happy.
But as I grew older, I began to notice changes. The pats on the head became fewer, the scraps smaller. He would leave me tied outside for hours, no matter the weather. One day, he looked at me, sighed, and said, “You’re too much trouble.” That was the last time I saw him. He drove me to the outskirts of town, opened the car door, and told me to get out. I didn’t understand. I wagged my tail, thinking we were going on an adventure. When he drove away without me, I chased the car until my legs gave out.
Life on the streets was harsh. I learned quickly that not all humans are kind. Some would throw stones or shout at me to leave. Other dogs, desperate for survival, would fight me for scraps of food. I wasn’t strong enough to win those fights, and every encounter left a new mark on my face, a new reminder of my failure.
My reflection in puddles became something I avoided. The once happy puppy I had been was now a scarred, battered creature that no one wanted to look at. I heard children call me “ugly” and adults mutter “poor thing” before walking away. It hurt, not just physically but deep inside. I started to believe them. I was ugly. I wasn’t deserving of love.
There were nights when I would curl up in a dark corner, shivering from the cold, and dream of being held, of feeling a gentle touch. But when morning came, the harsh reality would return. I was alone, and that was how it was meant to be.
One day, after a particularly rough storm, I was lying under a bridge, soaked to the bone and too tired to move. That’s when I heard footsteps. I tried to make myself invisible, curling into a ball, but the steps stopped right in front of me.
“Oh, you poor thing,” a soft voice said. I flinched, expecting the usual kick or harsh words. Instead, I felt a warm blanket drape over me.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Her hands were gentle as she picked me up. For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t feel fear. She took me to her home, a small, cozy place filled with the scent of food and warmth. She cleaned my wounds, fed me, and spoke to me as if I were the most precious thing in the world.
“You’re not ugly,” she said one day, stroking my scarred face. “You’re a survivor. And that makes you beautiful.”
I didn’t believe her at first. How could I? But as the days turned into weeks, I started to see myself through her eyes. To her, I wasn’t just a scarred, ugly dog. I was a soul worth saving, worth loving.
Now, I spend my days lying in the sun, feeling her hand on my fur, and listening to her soft words. I still have my scars, and I always will. But I’ve learned that love doesn’t come from being cute or perfect. It comes from being seen, truly seen, and accepted for who you are.
To anyone reading this, please remember: beauty is more than what you see on the outside. Every scar tells a story, and every story deserves to be heard. Even a dog like me can find love, and for that, I am eternally grateful.
Thank you for listening to my story. 🐾
