Today is my birthday, but perhaps everyone has forgotten about it. It’s okay, though. I’ve grown used to this feeling, the quietness of the day, and the emptiness that fills my heart when I think about how alone I am. The day began like any other, with the soft sunlight streaming in through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. But today, for me, is supposed to be special. Or at least, that’s what I hoped for.
I was born many years ago in a world where I didn’t quite fit in. As a puppy, I had boundless energy, running and jumping just like any other dog. But then, life took an unexpected turn. One moment, I was chasing after a ball, and the next, I found myself unable to move my back legs. The pain was sharp and overwhelming. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but I do remember the moment when everything changed.
Since then, my life has been different. I rely on my wheelchair to move around, something that has become a part of me now. The wheels beneath me help me move, but they also remind me of all the things I can’t do anymore—run, jump, play without help. But every time I roll across the floor, I remind myself that I am still here, still fighting, still finding joy in the small things.
On this birthday, I thought maybe someone would remember me. Maybe my owner would wish me a happy birthday, give me a treat, or even just give me a little extra attention. But as the hours tick by, I am met with silence. The house is quiet, and there’s no one here to celebrate with me. No warm hug, no pats on my head. Just the soft sound of my wheelchair wheels turning as I move around, looking for something, anything to make the day feel different.
I’ve been here for a while now, in this home that is kind to me, but still, there’s that feeling of longing, of wanting to be noticed on this special day. My paws may not be as quick as they once were, but my heart still beats with the same love, the same joy for life that it always did. I don’t need much—just a little love, just a moment to feel like I matter, like I’m not just a dog in a wheelchair, but a dog who is loved and cherished.
The day stretches on, and I look out the window, watching the world go by. People walk their dogs in the park, and I watch them with a mixture of envy and longing. I want to join them, run free across the grass, feel the wind against my face. But I can’t. And so, I settle into the moment, knowing that despite my limitations, I am here. I am alive. I am still the same dog who once ran and jumped and loved life, even if now I need a little help to get by.
As the day draws to a close, something unexpected happens. My owner, who has been busy with work, finally notices me sitting quietly in my corner. She walks over, bends down, and softly strokes my head. “Happy birthday,” she whispers, her voice warm and gentle. It’s not much, but it’s enough. In that moment, I feel loved. I feel remembered.
Maybe my birthday doesn’t need grand celebrations or big parties. Maybe all I really need is this—one small moment of connection, of love. I may be in a wheelchair, and I may not be able to do the things I once did, but I am here, and I am loved. And that, for me, is enough.
So, today, as the sun sets and the stars begin to twinkle in the sky, I roll my wheelchair around the living room with a little more joy in my heart. It may not be a perfect day, but it’s mine. And that’s all I need.
