No one loves me because I’m just a homeless dog. I’ve wandered these streets for as long as I can remember, and the world has never once shown me kindness without hesitation. People walk past me every day — some ignore me entirely, others wrinkle their noses or wave their hands to shoo me away as if I were a nuisance. I don’t blame them. I know I don’t look like much. My fur is dirty and matted from years without a warm bath. My ribs show through my skin because I haven’t had a proper meal in days. My paws are sore, cracked from walking on hot pavement and cold concrete. And my eyes? They’re tired — not just from the physical pain, but from the loneliness.
I wasn’t always alone. I remember, faintly, what it felt like to be held. To sleep on something soft. To have someone whisper my name and smile just because I was there. But that life didn’t last long. One day, I was left behind. I don’t know why. Maybe they moved. Maybe they couldn’t afford to keep me. Maybe I just wasn’t enough. Whatever the reason, I waited for them for days at the same spot, thinking they’d come back. But they never did.
So I started walking. At first, I didn’t understand that I was on my own. I still believed that people would help me. I approached with a wagging tail and hopeful eyes. But too often, I was met with kicks, angry words, or cold indifference. I learned quickly to keep my distance — not because I didn’t want love, but because it hurt too much to ask for it and be turned away again and again.
Still, there are moments. Small, fleeting ones. A child who tried to give me half a sandwich before his mother pulled him away. A woman who left a bowl of water outside her door on a hot day. A man who once sat near me and whispered, “Hang in there, buddy,” before disappearing down the street. Those tiny acts of kindness are the only things that remind me I’m still alive. That maybe, somewhere deep down, someone might see me for who I am — not just what I look like.
You see, under this filthy coat and broken body, I’m still a dog who wants to love and be loved. I would protect my person with everything I have. I would greet them with joy every time they came home. I would rest my head on their lap and listen to the rhythm of their heart, just happy to exist beside them. I don’t need much — just a place to sleep, a name to call my own, and someone who doesn’t turn away when they see me.
Every night, I curl up in whatever dry corner I can find, and I dream. I dream of a home. I dream of hearing, “You’re safe now.” I dream of someone who doesn’t care that I’m not cute, or young, or healthy. I dream of being chosen. But morning always comes. The cold returns. The hunger returns. And I keep walking.
Maybe I’m foolish for hoping. Maybe I’m nothing more than a forgotten stray in a world that’s too busy to care. But I still believe — even if no one else does — that there’s a place for me somewhere. That one day, someone will look past the dirt and scars and see the heart still beating inside me. The heart that, despite everything, still wants to love.
Until that day comes, I’ll keep moving. I’ll keep surviving. Because even if no one loves me right now… I still hope someone will, one day.
