My name doesn’t really matter—no one ever called it with love. For many years, I lived in a place that was called a “home,” but it never felt like one. The walls were cold, the days were long, and the hands that touched me were never gentle. I was just a dog to them—something to yell at, something to hit when they were angry, something to forget when I needed warmth or food.
I remember the first day I arrived there. I was just a puppy, full of joy and trust. My tail wagged at every glance, my eyes sparkled with excitement. I thought I had found my forever place. But very quickly, I realized I was wrong. The shouting started, then came the kicks, the hunger, the nights outside in the freezing rain. I would cry softly, hoping someone would come, but no one ever did.
Year after year passed. I stopped barking. I stopped wagging my tail. I stopped dreaming. I thought maybe this was all life had for me—pain, fear, and loneliness.
But something inside me never completely died. A tiny flicker of hope lived in the corner of my tired heart. It whispered to me, “Maybe one day, someone kind will find you. Maybe one day, you will be loved.”
That day came when a neighbor noticed the scars on my body and the sadness in my eyes. One rainy afternoon, people came with soft voices and gentle hands. They took me away. I was trembling, unsure if it would be more pain. But instead of anger, I saw compassion. Instead of kicks, I felt blankets. Instead of hunger, I tasted food—real food.
Now I live in a shelter. It’s not a home, but it’s safe. The volunteers call me “sweet boy” and “brave soul.” They pet me, clean my wounds, and speak to me like I matter. Every night, I lie on my blanket and look at the door, hoping it will open, and someone will walk in—not just anyone, but my person. The one who will look at me not with pity, but with love. The one who will say, “You’re safe now. You’re mine. You’re home.”
I know I’m not perfect. My body still carries the marks of my past, and sometimes I flinch when hands come too fast. But I still have so much love to give. My heart, though bruised, is full. I dream of chasing butterflies, of lying beside someone on a sunny porch, of hearing the words, “Good boy” whispered just for me.
If you’re reading this, I want you to know: I’m still waiting. I’m still believing. After all I’ve been through, I still hope for love. I still long for a forever home—not just a place to live, but a place to belong.
Please, don’t pass me by. I’m not broken—I’m healing. I’m not dangerous—I’m just scared. And more than anything, I’m ready. Ready to love, ready to trust, and ready to go home.
