They look down on me because I have no parents; I was born an orphaned dog. From the moment I opened my eyes, the world felt cold and unwelcoming. I don’t remember the warmth of a mother’s fur or the safety of her embrace. All I’ve ever known is the loneliness of being on my own.
I was born in an abandoned alleyway, surrounded by shadows and the faint scent of garbage. My siblings and I were left to fend for ourselves, but one by one, they disappeared—taken by hunger, sickness, or the harshness of the streets. Eventually, I was the only one left.
Life as an orphaned pup is harder than anyone can imagine. I’ve heard people talk about how adorable puppies are, how everyone loves them. But that love seems to be reserved for puppies who have families, who are clean and playful and come from warm homes. Not for someone like me.
I’ve tried to be noticed. When humans walk by, I wag my tail as hard as I can, hoping they’ll stop. But most don’t even glance my way. The few who do often wrinkle their noses, muttering about how scruffy I look. Some shoo me away like I’m nothing more than a nuisance.
Once, I overheard two children pointing at me and laughing. “Look at that dog,” one of them said. “It’s all alone. No mom, no dad. Who’d want a dog like that?” Their words cut deeper than I thought words could.
Despite everything, I try to stay strong. I search for scraps of food wherever I can find them—leftover crusts of bread or bits of meat tossed into the trash. Sometimes, kind strangers offer me a piece of their lunch, and for a moment, I feel like I matter.
But nights are the hardest. The streets grow quiet, and the air turns cold. I curl up in a little ball, trying to stay warm, but the emptiness inside me is harder to fight off than the chill. I dream of a family, of someone who’ll hold me close and tell me I belong to them.
I wonder what it would feel like to be loved, to have someone who doesn’t care that I was born without parents. Someone who sees me not as an orphan, but as a puppy with a heart full of hope and love to give.
There was one day—a day I’ll never forget—when a woman stopped to pet me. Her hands were gentle, her voice soft. “You’re just a baby,” she said, her eyes filled with sadness. For the first time, someone looked at me not with pity or disgust, but with kindness.
I followed her for a while, hoping she’d take me with her. But after a few blocks, she turned around and said, “I’m sorry, little one. I can’t take you home.” Her words were kind, but her rejection still stung. I watched her walk away until she disappeared.
Now, I live each day hoping that someone like her will come back—but this time, they won’t leave. They’ll see past my scruffy fur and sad eyes. They’ll see the puppy who just wants to love and be loved.
Until then, I’ll keep surviving. I may have been born an orphan, but I still believe there’s a place for me in this world. A place where I’ll no longer be looked down upon, where I’ll finally belong.
