The sound of rain tapping against the roof wakes me. It’s another gray morning, another day of waiting. I stretch my legs and rise from the small, worn bed in the corner of my kennel. The concrete floor beneath my paws is cold, but it’s something I’ve grown used to over the years.
Years.
Yes, I’ve been here for what feels like a lifetime. I don’t even remember how I got here anymore. Was it a kind stranger who found me wandering alone, hungry and scared? Or was it the family I once loved who left me when I was no longer a playful puppy? The memories are blurry, faded like an old photograph.
I watch as people come and go, walking past my kennel. They smile at the younger dogs—the ones who jump and wag their tails, eager to impress. I hear the joy in their voices when they find “the one.” It’s a sound I dream of hearing for myself.
But when they look at me, their smiles falter.
“He’s older,” they whisper. “It must be hard to care for him.”
And just like that, they move on.
I try not to let it hurt, but it does. I may not leap with the energy of a puppy, and my fur may be graying in places, but my heart is as young and hopeful as ever. Every day, I sit by the gate of my kennel, tail wagging, hoping someone will notice me. Hoping someone will see the love I still have to give.
What I need isn’t much. I don’t need a big yard or fancy toys. I don’t need endless treats or a soft, velvet bed. All I need is a family—a family to call my own. A warm hand to scratch behind my ears, a voice that says, “You’re safe now.” A place where I can finally rest, knowing I am loved.
At night, when the shelter grows quiet, I dream of that family. I imagine lying on a rug by a fireplace, the soft hum of laughter filling the room. I see children’s hands reaching to pet me, their giggles ringing in my ears. I feel the warmth of a home—a real home, not the cold walls of this kennel.
“I have been in the shelter for many years,” I whisper into the darkness. “What I need is a forever family.”
Sometimes, the workers here sit with me. They call me a “good boy” and tell me I deserve a second chance. I love them for that. They see me, truly see me, and for a moment, I feel like I matter. But they can’t take me home. They have so many others to care for, so many others who are waiting, just like me.
I often wonder, is it my age that keeps people away? Or the small scar on my ear, the one that tells the story of a past I’d rather forget? I wish I could tell them that none of it matters. My age only means I’ve had more time to learn how to love deeply, to appreciate every gentle touch and kind word.
I’m not bitter, and I’m not angry. I’m just… waiting. Waiting for the day someone will look past the years, past the scars, and see me for who I am—a loyal friend, a quiet companion, a soul who longs to belong.
Until then, I’ll keep hoping. I’ll keep wagging my tail for every passerby, showing them the love that fills my heart. Because one day, someone will stop. One day, someone will kneel down, meet my eyes, and say the words I’ve been waiting to hear:
“You’re coming home with me.”
