I wasn’t always alone. I wasn’t always this way. But life has a cruel way of shaping creatures like me—those who are different, those who don’t fit the world’s idea of beauty.
I was born into darkness, never knowing what colors looked like, never seeing the faces of those around me. All I had was my sense of smell, my ears tuned to every sound, and my heart, which longed to be loved like any other dog. But from the very beginning, people didn’t see me as worthy of love. My fur was patchy, my body frail, and my eyes, clouded and lifeless, told them everything they needed to know—I was blind, useless, unwanted.
The first family I had didn’t want to deal with a dog like me. They barely paid attention to me, never played with me, never let me run freely like the others. I tried my best to be good, to wag my tail when they spoke, to nuzzle their hands for comfort, but they always pulled away. I heard whispers, voices saying, “He’s too much trouble,” “He’s not like normal dogs,” “He’s not cute.”
One day, they drove me far away and left me in a strange place. I waited, thinking they would come back for me. I waited until the sun set and the night grew cold, my small body shivering on the hard pavement. But no one returned.
That was the first night I learned what it meant to be truly alone.
From that moment on, I wandered the streets, surviving on whatever scraps I could find. But my blindness made everything harder. I tripped over things I couldn’t see, ran into walls, got lost in alleyways where no one could hear my cries. Some people passed by, and I could hear the disgust in their voices.
“Look at that ugly stray.”
“Why doesn’t someone put it down?”
“Don’t touch it—it looks sick.”
Their words hurt more than the hunger in my belly.
The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. My once-thin body became weaker, my fur dirtier, my steps slower. I no longer had the energy to search for food. I simply lay in the corners of buildings, curled up and waiting for my pain to end.
Then, one day, something changed.
I was too weak to lift my head when I heard footsteps approaching. I expected them to walk past like everyone else, to mutter something cruel under their breath. But then, I felt something warm—hands, soft and gentle, touching my matted fur. A voice, kind and filled with sorrow, whispered, “You must have been through so much, little one.”
No one had ever spoken to me that way before.
The stranger picked me up, cradling me in their arms as if I were something precious. I was too weak to struggle, too tired to be afraid. They carried me somewhere warm, where the air smelled of kindness and safety. I felt soft blankets beneath me, food placed carefully near my nose, clean water that tasted sweeter than anything I had ever known.
For the first time in so long, I felt like I mattered.
Days passed, and I grew stronger. The hands that once lifted me from the cold streets now brushed through my fur, soothing the pain I had carried for so long. I learned that love wasn’t just for the beautiful, for the perfect—it was for the broken, the forgotten, the ones who had been cast aside.
I may never see the face of the person who saved me. I may never know what the world truly looks like. But I know what love feels like. And that is enough.
Because, finally, I am not alone.
