Today is my birthday, but no one has come by to give me a warm hug yet. I woke up early, just like any other day, with the soft light creeping through the window. The shelter is quiet, and I can hear the sounds of the other dogs moving about, eager for breakfast, but I stay still. My heart beats a little faster as I think, Maybe today will be different. Maybe someone will remember me.
The scent of food fills the air as the workers start their morning routine, serving breakfast to the other dogs. I hear the happy barks and the rustling of paws as they eat, but I remain in my corner, alone. My body feels a little heavier today, not from age, but from the weight of loneliness. Today, like every day, I am forgotten.
I’ve been here for a while now, and I’ve gotten used to the sounds and smells of the shelter. I know every corner, every face, every little noise. But there is one thing that has never felt familiar—the feeling of being loved, truly loved. You see, I’m not the most striking dog. I’m not the one who catches people’s eyes right away. I don’t have the energy to jump up and down or wag my tail excitedly. I can’t make a grand entrance because I’m just a little quieter, a little more reserved.
But today is my birthday. The workers are smiling at the other dogs, giving them treats, petting them with gentle hands. I hear their voices filled with warmth as they interact with the others, and for a moment, I imagine what it would feel like to be the one they rush over to, the one they scoop into their arms for a cuddle. I imagine what it would feel like to feel wanted, to feel special. But today, no one stops for me.
I lie down and close my eyes for a moment, trying to calm the ache in my chest. Birthdays are supposed to be happy, right? Filled with joy and laughter, with treats and presents. But here I am, alone, waiting for a hug that will never come.
Maybe someone will come later, I tell myself. Maybe someone will remember it’s my birthday and decide to spend a little extra time with me. But the hours pass, and the shelter stays the same. The other dogs get attention, get played with, get loved. I can hear their excitement, their voices filled with joy, and I can’t help but wonder why I’m left out.
I’m not a bad dog. I try my best every day. I try to be good, to be patient, to be loving, but all I get in return is silence. I long for the simple things—just a kind touch, a gentle pet, a soft voice telling me I’m a good boy. It doesn’t even have to be a special treat or a big celebration. Just a warm hug would be enough to make me feel like I matter, like someone cares.
But here I am, sitting quietly, waiting. Waiting for something I can’t seem to have.
As the day goes on, the shelter grows quieter. The other dogs have all had their fill of attention, their moments of joy, and now they rest. But I remain awake, my heart aching in the silence. I long for the moment when someone will walk over to me, bend down, and give me the attention I’ve craved for so long. I long for the touch of a hand, the warmth of a hug, the reassurance that, even though I’m just one dog in a crowded shelter, I am not forgotten.
I’m still here, hoping. Hoping that, for once, I’ll feel like I belong. That someone will see me—not just as a dog waiting for adoption, but as a being who deserves love, who deserves affection.
And so, I wait. The hours slip by, and I try to hold on to the hope that, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day, someone will come for me. Someone who will wrap me in their arms, hold me tight, and whisper, “Happy Birthday.”
But for now, today is just another day. Another birthday without a hug.
