I wasn’t always this way. There was a time when my eyes were bright and my face was whole. Back then, I could run freely in the fields, chasing butterflies, barking at the squirrels that dared to scurry too close, and greeting every stranger with a wagging tail. I wasn’t just a dog; I was joy in its purest form.
Then, the lump appeared. At first, it was small—a mere bump on my cheek that didn’t bother me much. But over time, it grew. Slowly, it began to take over one side of my face. My vision on that side faded, replaced by a darkness that no amount of blinking could erase.
The people around me stopped looking at me the same way. Some recoiled in pity; others in fear. “Poor thing,” I would hear them say, their voices heavy with sorrow. But they didn’t see me—me. Beneath this disfigured face is still the same heart, the same soul that loves deeply and unconditionally.
I remember the day my family left me. They didn’t know how to handle my condition or the vet bills that came with it. They drove me to the edge of a quiet road and left me there. I chased after their car until my legs gave out, and then I lay there, confused and heartbroken.
Days turned into weeks. I survived on scraps and the occasional kindness of strangers. But most people avoided me. I knew I wasn’t like other dogs anymore. My face frightened them, and my body bore the weight of my illness. My reflection in puddles often made me pause. I would wonder if I, too, would turn away if I saw myself.
One cold evening, as rain soaked my fur and the wind howled through the empty streets, a kind woman stopped her car. She approached me cautiously, her umbrella shielding both of us from the storm. I braced myself for rejection, but instead, she knelt down and extended her hand. Her voice was soft, her eyes full of compassion. “You must be so tired, sweet boy,” she said.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I wagged my tail.
She named me Oliver. At her home, I found warmth, food, and something I had almost forgotten—love. She took me to a vet who examined my tumor. The news wasn’t good. Surgery wasn’t an option, and the tumor would continue to grow, further limiting my vision and mobility.
But she didn’t give up on me. She made every day a celebration of life. We would sit together by the window, her fingers gently stroking my fur as she read to me. She would take me to the park, where I felt the grass beneath my paws and the sun warming my back. Even though my sight was limited, I could feel the world’s beauty through her touch and kindness.
Sometimes, I catch her crying when she thinks I’m asleep. I know she wishes she could take this pain away from me. But I want her to know that I don’t see my tumor as a burden anymore. It’s a part of me, just like my wagging tail and my beating heart.
To anyone who sees me and feels pity, I want to say this: Don’t look away. I may not be perfect, but I’m still here. My vision is limited by this tumor, but my heart sees clearly. I see love, hope, and the kindness of a human who refused to give up on me.
So, if you can, send a blessing my way. Not just for me, but for all the dogs like me—those who are overlooked, discarded, or forgotten. We may not be whole in body, but our souls are filled with gratitude for every moment of kindness we’re shown.
In this life, I’ve learned that beauty isn’t about how you look. It’s about how you love. And despite everything, I love deeply.
