Today is my birthday. At least, I think it is. I can’t see the calendar hanging on the wall, nor the streamers and balloons that might adorn the room if someone had remembered. My world is always dark, yet today it feels heavier, emptier—a kind of loneliness that even I, a blind dog, can sense.
I was born into darkness, or so I’ve been told. When my littermates opened their eyes to the world, they saw colors and shapes. I saw nothing. I heard the whispers back then: “This one won’t survive,” “He’s too weak,” “Who would want a blind dog?” But I survived. I learned to navigate the world with my ears, my nose, and most importantly, my heart.
Still, the whispers never stopped. “He’s not like the others,” “He won’t fetch sticks or chase balls,” “Why bother?” Eventually, those whispers became actions, and I was left behind. I was given food and water, yes, but never the love or attention my siblings received.
Today, like every other day, I sit in the corner of the yard. The faint rustle of leaves and the occasional chirp of a bird remind me that life moves on, even if mine feels stuck. My tail wags instinctively when I hear footsteps, but no one stops for me. They don’t stroke my fur or call out to me with joy.
I had hoped today would be different. Birthdays are special, aren’t they? A day to feel loved, celebrated, and cherished. But not for me. Because I’m blind, no one cares about my birthday.
My ears perk up at the sound of laughter from the other dogs. They’re playing, tails wagging, paws thudding against the ground. I long to join them, but I’ve learned that my blindness makes them wary. They don’t mean to exclude me, but I am different, and that difference creates a gap I can’t seem to bridge.
I rest my head on my paws, my heart heavy. All I want is someone to sit beside me, to remind me that even in darkness, I am seen. I want to feel the warmth of kindness, the gentle touch of a hand that doesn’t pity but loves.
As the day fades, I retreat to my small bed. The world grows quieter, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. Yet, deep down, a small ember of hope flickers. Maybe tomorrow will be the day someone notices me—not as the blind dog but as a soul longing for connection.
And perhaps, one day, someone will celebrate me—not because I can see, but because I exist. Until then, I’ll keep dreaming, because even in the darkness, dreams are all I have.
