Hello, my name is Rocky. I’m not like the other dogs you’ve seen before. My face is a little… different. Some people say it looks strange. My nose is slightly crooked, my left ear folds awkwardly, and my eyes don’t quite align. I overheard someone call me “ugly” once, and since then, I’ve carried a question in my heart: Do I look so ugly that you would dislike me?
I wasn’t always this way. When I was a puppy, my face was normal, and people used to smile at me. I had a family—a little girl who loved to cuddle me and call me her “handsome boy.” But one day, an accident changed everything. I got hit by a car. It was terrifying, and when I woke up, I was in pain, and my face wasn’t the same anymore. My family didn’t want me after that. They said I looked scary and couldn’t keep me.
That’s how I ended up here, in this shelter. It’s not a bad place. The volunteers are kind and take good care of me, but I can see it in their eyes—they feel sorry for me. People come and go, adopting the other dogs, but no one ever stops for me. When they walk past my kennel, they look at me and quickly turn away, as if my face is something to be ashamed of.
I spend my days watching the world through the bars of my kennel. I dream about running in a big yard, chasing a ball, and sleeping on a cozy bed. I dream about someone looking past my face and seeing the love I have to give.
One day, a little girl came to the shelter with her mom. She had bright, curious eyes and a kind smile. As she walked past the kennels, she stopped in front of mine. I expected her to look away like everyone else, but she didn’t. She crouched down and stared at me for a long time.
“Mom, look at him,” she said softly. “He’s different, but he’s beautiful.”
Her words made my heart leap. Beautiful? No one had called me that in a very long time. I cautiously wagged my tail and moved closer to the bars. She reached out her tiny hand, and I pressed my nose against it. Her touch was warm and gentle.
“Do you want to meet him?” the volunteer asked.
“Yes, please,” the little girl replied eagerly.
The kennel door opened, and I stepped out, nervous but hopeful. The girl knelt down and hugged me, her arms wrapping around my scruffy body. “You’re perfect,” she whispered.
I couldn’t believe it. For the first time in so long, someone saw me for who I was—not for how I looked. Her mom agreed to adopt me, and as we drove away from the shelter, I felt a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.
That night, as I lay on a soft blanket in my new home, I thought about my question again: Do I look so ugly that you would dislike me? But this time, I had an answer. No, my face didn’t matter. What mattered was the love in my heart, and finally, someone had seen it.
Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see an ugly dog. I see a survivor, a dog who was given a second chance, and a friend who will love his new family forever.
