Today started like every other day—cold, lonely, and silent. As the first rays of sunlight touched the cracked pavement where I slept, I stretched my aching limbs and wandered the streets, my stomach growling in hunger. But today wasn’t just any day. It was my birthday, or at least the day I remembered as my birthday.
I don’t know exactly how old I am—maybe seven, maybe ten. Time feels different when you live like this. All I know is that once, long ago, I had a family. They brought me home as a tiny puppy, showering me with love and laughter. I used to have a warm bed, soft hands to scratch behind my ears, and a name they would call with affection. Birthdays back then were special. There were treats, new toys, and a sense of belonging that made my tail wag uncontrollably.
But those days are a distant memory. One day, everything changed. I was left behind, forgotten like an old toy no one wanted anymore. At first, I waited, thinking they would come back for me. I waited by the door, then by the street corner, until the realization sank in—they weren’t coming back.
Now, every day is a battle for survival. And today, my birthday, is no different. As I wandered through the streets, I couldn’t help but hope for something special, just a small sign that someone cared. A kind smile, a scrap of food, anything to remind me that I wasn’t invisible.
But the streets were as unkind as ever. People hurried past, their faces hard and indifferent. Some crossed the road to avoid me, as if my presence was an inconvenience. My fur, once shiny and soft, is now matted and patchy. My ribs show through my thin frame, and I know I’m not what anyone would call a beautiful dog.
By midday, the hunger in my belly was almost unbearable. I found a quiet alley and curled up beside a pile of old boxes. The tears came before I could stop them, hot and silent. It seems like everyone has forgotten my birthday, and I couldn’t help but cry.
As the day faded into evening, something unexpected happened. A little girl, no older than six, approached me with her mother. Her eyes were wide with curiosity and kindness. She knelt down and reached out a small hand, her touch gentle on my scruffy fur.
“Mommy, look at him,” she said. “He’s sad. Can we give him this?”
She held out a small sandwich, her lunch, I assumed. Her mother hesitated but then nodded, and the girl placed the food in front of me. I ate slowly, savoring every bite, not just for the taste but for the love it was given with.
The girl smiled as I finished, and for a moment, I felt like I mattered again. She didn’t know it was my birthday, but her kindness made it feel special nonetheless.
As they walked away, I watched them until they disappeared around the corner. My tears came again, but this time, they weren’t from sadness. In a world that often felt cold and unloving, a small act of kindness reminded me that I was still here, still alive, and maybe, just maybe, still worthy of love.
Today may have been a forgotten birthday, but it wasn’t completely without hope. And as I curled up under the stars, I whispered a quiet wish into the night—that one day, I might find a home again.
