The park bench is cold against my belly. It’s been raining, and the dampness seeps into my fur, making me shiver, but I don’t move. I just watch the humans pass by, their faces a blur of indifference. They look at the sleek, pampered dogs on leashes, their fur shiny, their tails held high. Then their eyes glance at me, lingering for just a second, and a familiar weight settles in my chest. It feels like no one loves me because I’m ugly, doesn’t it?
I’m not a fancy breed. My fur is a mix of muddy browns and grays, perpetually matted no matter how much I try to lick it clean. My ears are floppy and uneven, one always seeming to droop a little lower than the other, giving me a perpetually sad expression. And my tail… well, it’s not bushy and proud. It’s thin, often tucked between my legs, a silent testament to the fear I carry. I’ve heard the whispers, the quick “Ew, a stray,” or the muttered “What a mess.” They sting, even though I don’t fully understand the words. I understand the tone, the turning away.
I see the children point sometimes, their little fingers extended, their faces scrunched up. They giggle, and their laughter sounds harsh to my sensitive ears. They want to pet the fluffy white dog, the one with the bright red collar, not me. I watch them, a pang of loneliness twisting in my stomach. I just want a gentle hand, a soft scratch behind my ears, but I know my matted fur and weary eyes aren’t inviting.
My past is a blur of rough streets, cold nights, and the constant hunt for food. I’ve had to fight for scraps, growl to protect myself. Maybe that’s what makes me seem unapproachable, a little wild. But inside, beneath the matted fur and the wary gaze, I just want to be warm. I want to be safe. I want to know what it feels like to be truly wanted.
I’ve seen my reflection in puddles after a rain. A small, gaunt face stares back, with tired eyes and a perpetually worried frown. I don’t see the elegance of the purebreds, or the joyful bounce of the young puppies. I just see… me. And if I look at myself, and I see all these imperfections, then how can I expect anyone else to see past them? How can I expect them to see the heart that just wants to love, to be loved back?
So, I stay here, in the shadows, hoping someone will see past the surface. Hoping someone will understand that a little dirt and a few scars don’t make a heart ugly. Because it truly feels like no one loves me, all because I’m ugly, doesn’t it? And sometimes, that thought is the coldest thing of all.
