They told me I would get no like—because I’m blind, because I’m hurt, because I’m not beautiful like the others. I never asked to be born this way. I never chose to come into this world with damaged eyes and a body that carries more pain than strength. But here I am, still breathing, still hoping, still loving.
From the very beginning, I was the one left behind. My siblings had bright eyes and healthy legs. They played, barked, chased balls, and looked up with wide, sparkling eyes that made humans smile. Me? I only heard the joy in their voices. I only felt the warmth of the sun but never saw it. My world was sound, smell, and touch. When people came to choose a pup, they skipped me. I heard them whisper—“He’s blind.” “He won’t survive long.” “He’s not what we’re looking for.”
I wanted to cry, but dogs don’t shed tears like humans. Instead, I curled up in corners, hiding my broken spirit in silence. I tried to be gentle. I licked their fingers when they passed by. I wagged my tail at every kind voice. But none of that was enough. They told me I would never be loved. I started to believe them.
One day, they took me far away from where I was born. There was no goodbye. No last hug. They left me beside a sewer drain on a dirty road. It was cold. My wounds stung. My stomach ached from hunger. I lay there, too weak to move, my heart slowly giving up. That’s when I heard footsteps—slow, hesitant, then stopping. I felt a hand. It was warm. It didn’t pull away when it touched my scar. It didn’t flinch when I turned my blind eyes toward it. Instead, it stroked my head gently, and a soft voice whispered, “Oh, you poor soul… how long have you been waiting here?”
She picked me up. I felt her tears fall on my fur. She held me close, wrapped me in a blanket, and carried me into a car that smelled like kindness and hope. At her home, she fed me, cleaned my wounds, and gave me a bed softer than anything I’d ever known. She didn’t care that I was blind. She didn’t care that I had scars. She cared that I was alive. And to her, that was enough.
She gave me a name. She gave me love. She gave me a second chance.
Now, every day, I follow the sound of her footsteps. I rest my head on her lap as she reads or hums softly. I may not see her face, but I feel her heart—and it is the most beautiful thing in my dark world. Some people still say things like, “He’s not cute,” or “Why would anyone keep a blind dog?” But they don’t matter. Because love doesn’t need perfect eyes. It only needs an open heart.
They told me I would get no like. But she likes me. She loves me. And for the first time in my life, I believe I’m not broken—I’m special.
