I wasn’t always like this.
There was once a time when I had fur as soft as clouds and eyes full of wonder. I remember chasing butterflies in fields of golden grass, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back, and hearing the sound of laughter—human laughter—that made my tail wag with joy. But those days are distant now, like a dream that slips away the moment you open your eyes.
Now, when people look at me, they turn away. Some scream. Some throw stones. Most just walk past as if I’m not even there. I’ve seen my reflection in puddles—patches of red, inflamed skin where my fur used to be, scabs that itch so badly I can’t help but scratch until I bleed, and ears that have grown raw and cracked from endless infection. I know I look awful. I know I smell.
“I have mange—that’s why everyone despises me.”
It wasn’t always this way. The disease came slowly at first—just an itch here and there. But there was no one to care for me. No soothing hand, no medicine, no soft bed to rest in. I was on the streets, left to survive on scraps and sleep beneath cars or in trash bins. The mange took hold of me like a monster creeping beneath my skin, and I watched myself disappear piece by piece.
When I approached people, hoping for food or affection, they recoiled in fear or disgust. Some kicked me. Others cursed. Once, a child tried to pet me, but their mother screamed and dragged them away like I was a monster.
I began to believe it.
Was I a monster?
Was I really so unworthy of love, just because I was sick?
Days blurred into nights. Hunger gnawed at my belly while the cold gnawed at my bones. I would curl up in corners and pray—not for food, but for kindness. Just a moment of warmth. A soft voice. A touch that didn’t hurt.
Then, one morning, I heard footsteps—slow, deliberate. I didn’t bother to move. I was too weak. The person stopped near me, and I braced myself for another cruel word or worse. But instead, I heard a whisper:
“Oh, sweetheart… what happened to you?”
I opened my eyes, expecting to see disgust. But there was only sorrow. The woman didn’t run. She knelt beside me. Her hand trembled as it reached out, but it touched me—gently. I flinched at first, but then… I leaned in.
That one touch changed everything.
She wrapped me in a blanket, even though I was filthy. She spoke to me the entire ride to the clinic, calling me “brave,” calling me “precious.” The vet said I had advanced mange and was severely malnourished. They gave me medicine, warm food, and for the first time in what felt like forever… a clean, soft place to sleep.
It took weeks—months, even—for the itching to stop. For the pain to ease. For my fur to begin growing back. But what healed me the most wasn’t the medicine. It was the love.
Love from people who looked past my sores.
Love from hands that didn’t flinch when they touched my scarred skin.
Love from voices that called me “good boy” instead of “disgusting.”
Now, when I look in the mirror, I still see the marks. Some may never fully fade. But I no longer see a monster. I see a survivor. A soul that was once thrown away but never stopped hoping.
I once believed no one could love a dog like me.
But I was wrong.
Because someone did.
And that love saved me.
