I wake up to the gentle warmth of the sun rising over the city streets. Today should be a special day—it’s my birthday. But instead of feeling happy, my heart feels heavy. My mother and my siblings are still here with me, living on the cold pavement, with no home to call our own.
I remember the first time I opened my eyes, feeling the comfort of my mother’s fur around me and the soft nudges of my brothers and sisters as we huddled together for warmth. Back then, I didn’t understand what it meant to be homeless. All I knew was my mother’s love and the scent of my siblings. But as the days passed, I began to notice the world beyond our little nest—a world that often ignored us.
My mother does everything she can to keep us safe. She searches for scraps of food in trash cans, drinking from puddles when there’s no water nearby. She is strong, but I can see the tiredness in her eyes. She never complains, never stops, always making sure we are fed before she takes a single bite herself. I love her so much, and I wish I could give her something better.
Today, as I turn one year old, I had hoped things would be different. I had dreamed that maybe, just maybe, someone would notice us. That someone would stop, see the longing in our eyes, and take us in. But as I sit on the sidewalk, watching people walk past without a second glance, I realize that today is just like every other day.
The streets are noisy with the sounds of cars and hurried footsteps. Occasionally, a child points at us, eyes filled with curiosity, but their parents always pull them away. “Don’t touch,” they say. “It’s just a stray.” Just a stray. Those words sting more than the cold ground beneath my paws.
I try to stay hopeful, though. Maybe someone kind will come. Maybe today, on my birthday, we’ll find the warmth of a home. I close my eyes and imagine it—a soft bed instead of the hard concrete, a bowl of food that doesn’t have to be scavenged, a gentle hand stroking my fur, telling me that I’m loved.
I turn to my mother, who is licking my youngest sibling’s fur, trying to keep him clean despite the dust and dirt. She catches my gaze and nuzzles me softly, as if to say, We still have each other. And I know she’s right. Even without a home, we have love.
The sun begins to set, casting golden hues over the streets. Another birthday is passing, another day without a forever home. But I refuse to give up hope. Maybe tomorrow, someone will see us—not just as strays, but as a family longing for love. Maybe tomorrow, we won’t have to sleep under the stars, wishing for something more.
Until then, I will keep waiting. I will keep hoping. And I will keep dreaming of a day when I no longer have to feel sad on my birthday.
