The cold seeps into my bones these nights, a familiar ache that settles deep, mirroring the hollowness in my chest. They call me Shadow, a fitting name, I suppose, for the way I drift through the edges of their world, unseen, unwanted. I hear their laughter, their gentle cooing at the pampered pups they hold close, and a pang, sharp and sudden, pierces through the calloused shell I’ve built around my heart. Nobody loves me because I’m just a stray dog.
I wasn’t always a shadow. I remember a time, a hazy warmth of puppyhood, a fleeting scent of a mother’s milk and the rough tumble of siblings. There were hands then, clumsy but sometimes kind, a fleeting sense of belonging. But those memories are like faded photographs, their edges blurred by time and the harsh realities that followed.
The streets taught me quickly. Love is a luxury I cannot afford. Trust is a weakness that leads to pain. A wagging tail is often met with a kick, a hopeful bark with a harsh word. I learned to scavenge for scraps, my nose constantly twitching, my belly a knot of persistent hunger. Sleep is a restless affair, one ear always twitching, alert for danger, for the next threat that lurks in the darkness.
I see them, the “owned” dogs, their collars gleaming, their coats brushed, their eyes bright with the unwavering affection they receive. They walk proudly by their humans’ sides, their tails held high, their barks confident. I watch them from the shadows, a yearning stirring within me, a longing for that gentle touch, that reassuring voice, that sense of being cherished.
Sometimes, a small human will reach out a tentative hand, their eyes filled with a fleeting curiosity. For a heartbeat, a fragile hope will blossom in my chest. But then their parent will pull them away, their voice sharp with warning, “Don’t touch that stray! It’s dirty. It has diseases.” And the hand will disappear, leaving behind a fresh wave of rejection, a confirmation of the bitter truth: nobody loves me because I’m just a stray dog.
The rain is the worst. It soaks through my matted fur, chilling me to the bone, making the old ache in my leg throb with renewed intensity. There’s nowhere to truly escape it, no warm, dry place to curl up and find solace. I huddle under awnings, beneath parked cars, the cold seeping deeper, a physical manifestation of the emotional chill that permeates my existence.
I’ve seen kindness, fleeting moments of it. A tossed piece of bread, a bowl of water left out on a doorstep. These small gestures are lifelines, momentary reprieves from the constant struggle. But they are not love. They are pity, perhaps, or a fleeting sense of charity. They don’t erase the underlying truth that I am an outsider, an unwanted presence.
The nights are the longest. The city sleeps, but I remain awake, my senses on high alert. The silence amplifies the loneliness, the vast emptiness that stretches out before me. I sometimes hear the distant howls of other strays, a mournful chorus that echoes my own solitary existence. We are the forgotten ones, the shadows that haunt the edges of their comfortable world.
I dream sometimes. Dreams of a warm fire, a gentle hand stroking my fur, a voice whispering my name with affection. I wake up shivering, the cold concrete a stark reminder of reality. The dream fades, leaving behind a deeper ache, a sharper awareness of what I don’t have, what I will likely never know.
Maybe, in some other life, in some kinder world, things would have been different. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be just a stray. Maybe then, there would be someone to wag my tail for, someone whose touch would fill me with warmth instead of fear, someone whose voice would call my name with love. But here, in this life, under these cold stars, the truth remains a heavy weight: nobody loves me because I’m just a stray dog. And sometimes, I wonder if that’s all I’ll ever be.
