They told me I will get no kiss ‘cause I’m not cute. That’s what I heard them say as they walked past my kennel, their eyes glancing over me like I was nothing more than a stain on the floor. “Not this one,” someone whispered. “He’s not really… adorable.” Another said I looked a bit strange. My fur doesn’t shine. My ears flop unevenly. My eyes are different colors. My tail doesn’t curl the way they want it to. And because of all that, they said no one would ever love me. No one would ever pick me. No one would ever kiss me.
At first, I didn’t understand. I wagged my tail as hard as I could every time someone passed by. I’d press my nose to the metal gate, hoping for a hand to touch me gently. I tried to sit nicely. I tried not to bark. I even smiled the best I could. But they always moved on, their smiles fading the moment their eyes landed on me. I wasn’t the one they imagined. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t “cute.”
The other dogs were chosen quickly—golden, shiny, playful ones with bright eyes and silky coats. They were carried out in warm arms, wrapped in blankets, showered with kisses. I watched them go, one by one. And every time I watched a friend leave, I’d return to the corner of my kennel, curl into a ball, and pretend I didn’t mind. But I did. I minded more than anything.
I began to think something was wrong with me. Maybe I really was broken. Maybe love was only for the dogs who looked a certain way. I started to give up. I stopped wagging my tail. I stopped hoping when the door opened. I stopped imagining what it would feel like to be held close, to have someone press their lips to my forehead and whisper, “You’re mine.”
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months. The shelter grew colder. The volunteers changed. The names on the tags around me changed. But mine stayed. My tag stayed. My kennel stayed. And the space around me felt emptier with each passing day.
Then one afternoon—just when I had stopped expecting anything at all—someone came. She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t wear fancy clothes. She didn’t smell like perfume. Her eyes looked tired, and her hands trembled a little when she held the clipboard. But she didn’t look past me. She looked at me. And then she came closer.
She sat down on the other side of the gate, cross-legged, quietly, like she had time. Like I mattered. She didn’t ask to see another dog. She didn’t flinch when she saw my patchy fur or the scar near my eye. She looked at me like I was someone worth noticing.
And then, after a long moment, she whispered something I didn’t understand at first: “You look like me. A little lost. A little forgotten. But still beautiful.”
The gate opened. She reached for me slowly, gently, like she knew I’d been hurt before. I didn’t run to her. I was scared it would all vanish. But then she touched my head—and she kissed me. Right between my ears. As if I was the most precious thing in the world.
I don’t remember the last time someone kissed me.
Now I sleep in a warm bed. Now I have a blanket that smells like her and a bowl with my name on it. Not the name they gave me at the shelter. A new name. A name she chose for me with love.
She kisses me every morning, even when my breath is bad and my fur’s a mess. She kisses me when I’m scared of the thunder, when I do something clumsy, even when I chew on the corner of her favorite book. She says, “You’re my good boy.” And I believe her.
They once told me I’d never get a kiss because I wasn’t cute.
But now I know the truth.
I was always worthy of love—someone just had to see it.
