Every year, when my birthday comes around, I hope for something different—a spark of warmth, a moment of joy. But instead, I’m met with the same silence, the same emptiness. I often feel alone on my birthday because it seems as though everyone has forgotten to celebrate it.
I live in a small corner of the shelter, a place filled with barking and the soft whimpers of other dogs like me. Some of them are lucky; they find homes and families who love them. But for me, every passing day feels the same. I don’t even know exactly how long I’ve been here. The staff told me today is my birthday, a date they marked down when I was first brought in as a stray.
As the sun rises, I let myself dream. Perhaps someone will come today, someone who will notice me, someone who will see beyond my matted fur and tired eyes. Maybe they’ll bring a treat, a toy, or even just a kind word. I wag my tail at the thought, a flicker of hope that burns brightly, even if just for a moment.
But the day drags on, and the shelter remains as it always is—busy, noisy, yet somehow lonely. Volunteers come and go, cleaning, feeding, and caring for us. They are kind, but their hands are full. They pass by my cage, their focus on the endless tasks they must complete. I watch their footsteps fade, my heart sinking a little lower each time.
As the evening arrives, I curl up on the thin blanket that’s been my bed for so long. My stomach is full, thanks to the meals the shelter provides, but my heart aches for something more. I don’t want much—just a little attention, a gentle pat on my head, a whisper of acknowledgment that today is special. But instead, the day fades away like all the others, and I am left with only my thoughts.
I can’t help but wonder what I did wrong. Why do others get adopted, while I stay behind? I’ve tried to be good. I’ve tried to be patient. I wag my tail for every visitor, hoping one of them will stop and say, “This one. This is the one I want to take home.” But no one ever does.
As the stars begin to twinkle in the dark sky, I close my eyes and make a wish. I wish for a family, a home, and someone to remember my birthday—not with grand gestures, but with love. I imagine myself running through a yard, chasing after a ball thrown by a child’s laughing hands. I dream of a warm bed, of being called a “good boy,” of hearing someone say, “Happy birthday.”
The night grows quieter, and my wish drifts away like a leaf in the wind. Tomorrow will come, and it will be just another day in the shelter. But deep down, I hold onto a fragile hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, my story isn’t over yet. Perhaps next year, my birthday will be different.
Until then, I will wait. And I will keep dreaming.
