My name doesn’t matter—no one’s ever given me one that lasted. I’m just “the ugly dog”, or “that stray”, or worse, “what’s that thing?”
I wasn’t always like this. I was born like any other puppy—playful, curious, full of dreams I didn’t yet understand. But somewhere along the way, life became cruel. I don’t know how I lost my eye. One day, I could see the world in full, and the next, half of it vanished into blackness. The pain was unbearable at first, but what hurt more was how others began to treat me.
When people looked at me, they didn’t see a dog. They saw something broken. My left eye gone, my head swollen from an injury that never healed properly, and my fur patchy from years of neglect. I could hear whispers when I wandered close—“Poor thing,” or “Don’t let it get too near,” or even just silence, the kind that stings more than words.
No one loves me because I’m ugly and deformed.
I sleep under a rusted bench behind a market. When it rains, I curl into myself, hiding the swollen side of my face as if invisibility might protect me. I watch people walk by. They laugh, hold hands, carry warm food. Sometimes, they stop to pet other dogs—healthy ones with shiny coats and bright eyes. But me? They turn away. Some even look disgusted.
But I still wag my tail.
Because I remember what love feels like, even if it was long ago. I remember a warm hand once scratched behind my ear, and I remember the way it made my whole body melt. I remember a child offering me a piece of bread, smiling at me like I wasn’t broken at all. I live for moments like those. Rare, flickering lights in my long, dark tunnel.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep wandering. My body is tired. The swelling in my head makes it hard to eat sometimes. My good eye is blurry now too. But still, I walk. I sniff the wind. I hope.
Because deep inside, there is a small, quiet voice that whispers: Maybe someone will see me—not just look at me, but truly see me.
Maybe someone will kneel down, not out of pity, but because they believe I deserve love too. Maybe they’ll give me a name and a soft place to sleep. Maybe they’ll say, “You’re safe now.” And I’ll believe them.
Until then, I’ll keep moving. Even with one eye, I’ll keep searching for light. Because I know that love doesn’t care how many eyes I have, or how my head looks. Love sees the heart.
And mine? It’s still beating, still loyal, still waiting to be someone’s once-in-a-lifetime dog.
