I wasn’t always this way. Once, I had a shiny, golden coat that glistened under the sun. Children loved to run their fingers through it, and adults smiled when they saw me wagging my tail. I lived for those moments—the warmth of a gentle touch, the joy of companionship. But that life feels like a distant dream now, overshadowed by the reality of what I’ve become.
It started with an itch. Just a small, annoying sensation on my back that wouldn’t go away. I scratched and scratched until my skin felt raw. Patches of fur began to fall out, revealing inflamed, red skin underneath. My humans noticed, and I heard them whispering words I didn’t understand—“infection,” “vet,” “treatment.”
At first, they tried to help. They bathed me in special shampoos that smelled sharp and clinical, but the itching didn’t stop. They gave me pills hidden in treats, but I could feel their frustration growing when nothing seemed to work. One day, they put me in the car and drove me to a place that smelled of fear and sadness. They handed me over to strangers and walked away without looking back.
That’s how I ended up here, in this shelter, surrounded by other dogs who bark and howl, each with their own story of loss. But my story feels different. When people walk through the aisles looking for a dog to take home, their eyes slide over me as if I’m invisible. I see them pause at the healthier dogs with their shiny coats and bright eyes. I hear their coos of admiration and watch as wagging tails follow them out the door.
Me? I stay in my corner, trying to make myself small. I know what they see when they look at me—scabs, patches of bald skin, and eyes filled with sorrow. I hear their whispers, their words dripping with pity. “Poor thing,” they say. But pity doesn’t bring me a home.
The other dogs avoid me too. Maybe it’s the smell of the medicated ointments they rub on my skin, or maybe they sense my sadness. Either way, I spend most of my days alone, curled up on the thin blanket the shelter staff gave me. It’s not warm enough to shield me from the cold that seems to settle in my bones, but it’s all I have.
There was a time when I believed I could still be loved. I used to perk up whenever someone approached my kennel, wagging my tail despite the pain. But each time, they’d wrinkle their noses or pull their children back. “He looks sick,” they’d say. “Let’s keep looking.” After enough rejections, I stopped trying. What was the point?
One rainy afternoon, as I lay shivering in my corner, a soft voice broke through my despair. “Hey there, buddy.” I looked up to see a woman crouched in front of my kennel. Her eyes weren’t filled with pity; they were warm, understanding. She didn’t flinch at my appearance. Instead, she reached out a hand and let me sniff her fingers.
“I know life hasn’t been kind to you,” she said, her voice gentle. “But you deserve love just as much as any other dog.”
Her words didn’t just fill the silence; they filled a part of me I thought had died. When she opened the door to my kennel, I hesitated. Could I trust her? Could I trust anyone? But then she smiled, and something about that smile melted the wall I had built around my heart.
She took me home that day. Her house wasn’t fancy, but it was warm and safe. She didn’t care about my scabs or my patchy fur. She cared about me. She gave me soothing baths, fed me delicious meals, and let me rest on a soft bed by the fire.
Over time, my skin began to heal, and so did my spirit. My fur grew back in patches—not as glossy as before, but enough to keep me warm. The best part wasn’t the healing, though; it was the love. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t just a dog with a disease. I was her companion, her friend, her family.
Now, when I look in the mirror, I don’t see the scars or the patches of missing fur. I see a survivor, a dog who found love when he thought it was lost forever. My journey wasn’t easy, but it led me to her—and that made all the pain worth it.
