I don’t know how many days have passed since I was left here. The sun rises and falls through the shattered windows, but the light doesn’t bring warmth. It only reminds me that I’m still here—still waiting, still breathing, still hoping. The house is silent except for the creaks of its bones, an old wooden skeleton that groans when the wind passes through. It used to be filled with laughter, footsteps, and life. Now it’s just like me—abandoned, broken, and forgotten.
I wasn’t always like this. Once, I had a home. A family. I was someone’s dog. I remember the small hands that used to stroke my fur, the soft voice that used to call my name. I don’t remember my name anymore. It faded, just like everything else. The years wore on, and I got slower. My legs grew stiff, my eyes dim, and my fur—oh, my beautiful fur—was taken away by the cruel bite of mange. Patches of it disappeared, replaced by open sores and red, cracked skin. I itched and scratched until I bled, and even then, I kept wagging my tail whenever they came home. I loved them even when they started ignoring me. Even when they left me outside longer. Even when they stopped petting me. Even when they stopped looking at me at all.
Then one day, they left for good.
They didn’t say goodbye. They didn’t pack my leash or my old blanket. They just drove off, and I chased their car with everything I had left until my legs gave out. I collapsed near a pile of trash, panting, in pain, confused. I waited. Maybe they would come back. Maybe this was a mistake.
But no one came.
I wandered until I found this place—an old, crumbling house with no doors and no people. I crawled into a corner, hidden from the world. My body ached, and my skin burned. Every breath felt heavier. I curled up tightly, trying to remember the feeling of warmth, of kindness, of love. I could barely see out of one eye. The other had long gone blind. I wasn’t sure if I was dying. Maybe I was. Maybe I had already.
Still, I waited.
Each time the wind blew, I hoped it carried with it the scent of someone kind. Each rustle made my ears perk up, just a little, in case it was footsteps. I didn’t bark—I didn’t have the strength—but in my heart, I was calling out. “Please… find me. Please… see me. Please… love me.”
I began to dream often. In my dreams, I was young again. I ran through fields, chased butterflies, licked the faces of children who laughed. I dreamt of belly rubs, warm food, and the feeling of being wanted. I dreamt of being told, “You’re a good boy.” In those dreams, I believed it. But when I woke up, I was still cold. Still alone. Still invisible.
Until one day… someone came.
The sound of footsteps was real this time. Slow. Careful. Then a gasp. A voice, soft and trembling, broke the silence.
“Oh… oh no… you poor baby…”
She didn’t run away when she saw me. She didn’t scream or wrinkle her nose. She came closer. Her eyes filled with something I hadn’t seen in so long—compassion. She knelt beside me and reached out her hand, slowly, gently. Her fingers brushed my cheek, and I flinched—not from pain, but from disbelief. Her touch was warm. She touched me like I mattered.
Tears fell onto my fur as she whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m here now. I won’t leave you.”
She wrapped me in a blanket, even though I was dirty and sick. She lifted me into her arms, though I was thin and shaking. She didn’t look away when I whimpered or when the light caught the scars on my face. In that moment, I didn’t feel ugly. I didn’t feel worthless. I felt… rescued.
In the days that followed, I lay on a real bed again. I was taken to a vet who cleaned my wounds and gave me medicine. I was given warm meals, soft words, and a place where the sun touched my fur with kindness. I wasn’t healed completely—not yet—but I was no longer waiting in the dark.
I don’t know how much time I have left. I’m old. My body is tired. But now, I close my eyes in peace. Because someone saw me. Someone chose to love the dog that everyone else gave up on. I’m no longer a forgotten soul in an empty house.
I am loved.
And for me, that is everything.
