Today, my owner left me at the shelter,
and my heart feels shattered beyond words.
I don’t understand what I did wrong. This morning started like any other. I woke up to the familiar sound of the keys jingling, the gentle thud of slippers on the wooden floor. I wagged my tail and ran to the door, excited like always. My owner looked at me, patted my head softly, and said nothing. There was something strange in his eyes. Something distant. Something final.
We got into the car. I thought we were going to the park or maybe to visit the lake where we used to walk in the evenings. The breeze through the window felt good on my face. I stuck my head out, ears flapping, trying to catch the scents of the world I loved.
But the car didn’t go to the park. It stopped in front of a big gray building I had never seen before. It smelled of sadness. Fear. Desperation. And behind its doors… too many voices, too many eyes, too many dogs who all seemed to be waiting for something—or someone—who never came.
We walked inside. My tail slowed its wag. I looked up at my owner, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze.
The woman behind the counter said, “Is this a surrender?”
Surrender? I didn’t know what that meant. All I knew was that something felt terribly wrong.
He handed over my leash. My leash—the same one we used on adventures, on long walks home. The one that made me feel safe, like I belonged to someone.
Now it felt like a chain.
He bent down, scratched behind my ears one last time, and whispered, “I’m sorry, boy… I can’t take care of you anymore.”
And then he walked away.
Just like that.
I tried to follow him, but the door closed. My paws scratched at it, desperate. My cries echoed down the hallway. I howled louder than I ever had before, as if my voice could bring him back.
But he was gone.
A kind worker gently pulled me back and led me to a cold metal cage. There was a blanket, a bowl of food, and another of water. She spoke softly, trying to calm me, but I didn’t listen. My heart was too full of pain.
I lay down, shaking. The scent of unfamiliar dogs filled my nose. Some barked. Others stayed silent, their eyes dull, their spirits broken. I wondered how many of them had felt what I was feeling now.
I don’t hate my owner. I just miss him. I miss our routines. I miss the way he laughed when I stole his socks. I miss the warmth of the couch beside him. I miss belonging to someone.
Now, I belong to no one.
People walk by my cage and look in. Some smile. Some keep walking. I try not to hope anymore, but when someone kneels and calls me “sweet boy,” my tail betrays me. It wags slowly, carefully—like my heart, unsure if it’s safe to love again.
Tonight, I’ll sleep on this cold floor. I’ll dream of the life I had, and the one I lost in a single moment.
Today, my owner left me at the shelter,
and my heart feels shattered beyond words.
But somewhere deep inside me… I still hope.
That one day, someone will walk in.
Not just to see me.
But to choose me.
And this time, it will be forever.
