My name doesn’t matter anymore. Once, it echoed lovingly through a small house—called out with affection, joy, and warmth. Now, no one calls it. No one remembers me.
I lie curled up in the far corner of this cold shelter, my fur matted, my bones pressing against my skin. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be someone’s everything. I remember how my human used to rub my ears and tell me I was a “good boy.” I believed it. I wagged my tail at every word, every glance, every time his hand reached down to scratch my belly. I loved him with all I had. I never asked for much—just his presence, his voice, a kind smile.
But one day, things changed.
He stopped looking at me the same way. The pats became less frequent. My bowl started showing up later and later. Sometimes, it didn’t come at all. I tried to make him laugh like before—ran in circles, brought him my favorite toy. He just sighed. And then, one morning, he loaded me into the car. I thought we were going on one of those trips again, the kind where I could stick my head out the window and feel the wind play with my ears.
But we didn’t go to the park. We went somewhere colder. Quieter. He walked me into a building and handed my leash to a stranger. He didn’t look at me as he walked away. He didn’t even say goodbye.
Days turned into weeks. People come and go here. Some stop at my cage, smile, even say, “poor baby.” But they never choose me. They pick the puppies with the wagging tails and the bright eyes. Not me. Not the dog who just lies there and stares at the wall.
I feel useless. I hate everything around me. And I have no motivation to keep on living.
The sound of barking echoes endlessly, but I stay silent. What’s the point in barking when no one hears you? No one wants to listen to a broken dog. One whose eyes no longer sparkle. One whose heart is too tired to hope.
Sometimes, I dream of him—my old human. I see flashes of the backyard, the sound of his laugh, the warmth of his arms around me on stormy nights. I wake up whimpering, reaching for a past that’s long gone.
There’s a little girl who visits the shelter every week with her mother. She always stops by my cage. She never says anything, just looks at me with these big eyes full of questions. I want to reach out, to let her touch me, to tell her that I used to be someone’s friend. That I still have love left to give. But I’m scared. Scared of hoping again.
They say dogs live in the moment, that we forget pain, that we forgive easily. Maybe that’s true for some. But not me. Not anymore.
But today… today, the little girl stayed longer. She whispered something to her mom and pointed at me. I didn’t move. I didn’t lift my head. I didn’t dare.
The door opened. My cage creaked. The scent of fresh grass and sunshine drifted in with them. The girl knelt down and reached out. Her fingers were soft and warm. She didn’t pull away when she touched my matted fur. Instead, she smiled.
“Hi,” she said softly. “I think you’re beautiful.”
Something broke inside me. A dam. A wall. I didn’t mean to, but my tail gave the tiniest twitch. She noticed. She giggled. And just like that… a spark.
Maybe… just maybe… I’ll try again.
