As I pad down the cold, empty streets, I can feel the weight of today settling in my heart. It’s my birthday—a day that should be special, a day filled with joy and love. But here I am, just a lonely dog with a large, heavy lump on my face, a reminder that I’m not like the other dogs who have warm homes and happy families. My tumor, swollen and painful, often scares people away. They don’t see past it; they don’t see me.
I catch glimpses of families through windows, laughter spilling out as they celebrate together. Sometimes I stop, hoping someone might see me too, might look past this disfigurement and see the gentle heart I carry. But, more often than not, people avert their eyes, or quickly walk by. Maybe they think I’m used to this life, that I don’t understand what I’m missing. But I do. Oh, how I understand it. I long for a hand to stroke my fur, a voice to call my name, or even just a warm corner to rest in.
The chill cuts deeper today. My legs grow tired from wandering, and my stomach aches from hunger. It feels like a weight pressing down on my spirit, heavier even than the tumor that drags my face. All I want, just this once, is to be loved. Just for today, I wish someone would look at me and smile, reach out and let me know I’m not invisible. I yearn for the simple kindness of a gentle voice or a warm meal, anything to tell me that I matter.
But as the day wears on, and the shadows grow long, I realize that my wish might remain just that—a wish. So, I curl up in the alley, resting my weary head. Today is my birthday, but perhaps, like many others before it, it will slip by unmarked, unnoticed. And yet, as I close my eyes, I hold on to a small flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, someone out there will see past my broken exterior and recognize the soul inside, waiting, patiently, for a little love.
