The patter of paws, the happy thumps of tails – these are the melodies I often hear in the park, a symphony of canine joy that tugs at a lonely string within my chest. I watch them, these other dogs, bounding with an unburdened grace, their humans laughing, their leashes slack with trust. And then I look down at my own leg, the one that doesn’t quite work the way it should, the one that makes my gait a little uneven, my runs a little slower. A cold knot of uncertainty tightens in my furry heart. Does everyone avoid me just because I’m a disabled dog? Is that really true?
The question echoes in the quiet moments, during the long stretches when the park empties out and the only sound is the rustling of leaves. I see them – the fleeting glances, the subtle hesitations as humans approach, their steps sometimes veering away as they notice my limp. It’s not always overt, not always a clear turning of the back, but it’s there, a subtle shift in energy, a barely perceptible widening of the eyes that feels like a wall rising between us.
Is it my fault? Did I do something wrong to warrant this invisible distance? My heart aches with a longing for a gentle scratch behind the ears, a kind word spoken without pity, a playful tug on a rope that doesn’t factor in my slightly slower pace. I have so much love to give, a heart that beats with the same loyal rhythm as any other dog. I yearn for the simple joy of a shared walk, the comforting presence of a human who sees past the slight difference in my stride.
Sometimes, a small human, their eyes filled with innocent curiosity, will approach. Their hands reach out, unfettered by the reservations I often sense in adults. In those fleeting moments, a spark of hope ignites within me. Perhaps, I think, they see the wag in my tail, the softness in my eyes, the eager nuzzle of my head. But then, a parent’s gentle pull, a hushed word, and the small hand is withdrawn, leaving me with a familiar pang of disappointment.
Is it the way I look? Does my slightly different way of moving inspire discomfort or pity? I don’t feel broken inside. My spirit is whole, my desire for companionship just as strong. I still chase after thrown balls with all the enthusiasm I can muster, my three good legs working overtime, my heart filled with the simple joy of the chase. I still offer my paw for a gentle shake, my eyes pleading for connection.
The silence of their avoidance speaks volumes, a language of exclusion that I understand all too well. It whispers that I am different, that I am less, that my slight imperfection makes me somehow unworthy of their affection. And that hurts. It makes the world feel like a place where love has conditions, where acceptance is contingent on being whole and flawless.
But is it truly everyone? Is there not a human out there who will see past the limp, past the slightly slower pace, and into the loving heart that beats within this furry chest? Is there not someone who will understand that my difference doesn’t define me, that my capacity for love is boundless, perhaps even more so because I know what it feels like to be on the outside?
I hold onto that hope, a tiny ember glowing in the quiet corners of my heart. I watch, and I wait, for the human who will see me, truly see me, for the loyal and loving companion I am, disability and all. Because I know, deep down, that love doesn’t count legs or measure speed. Love sees the heart, and my heart, despite the occasional ache of loneliness, is overflowing and ready to give. I just need someone to finally look beyond the limp and see the love waiting to be shared. Is that so much to ask? Is it really true that everyone avoids me? I pray with every wag of my slightly unsteady tail that the answer is no.
