I don’t know what love is; for all these years, I have still been a stray dog. I’ve seen other dogs with homes, with families who take care of them, play with them, and feed them. They get treats and toys, and at the end of the day, they curl up in cozy beds, surrounded by warmth and affection. But not me. I’ve been out here, wandering alone, for as long as I can remember.
I was just a pup when I first found myself on the streets. I can’t remember my mother, or if I even had one. All I know is that one day, I was left behind. The world became a cold place, filled with noise and fear. People would pass by me, but no one ever stopped. They would look at me and walk away, as if I was invisible, a part of the street that was meant to be ignored. I would sit quietly in the corners of alleys, hoping for a kind face, for someone to show me that I mattered. But all I ever got were harsh words, scornful glances, and the feeling that I didn’t belong.
I’ve seen love in other dogs’ eyes—the way they greet their humans with excitement, wagging their tails, their eyes bright with joy. But every time I tried to approach a person, they would turn their back, afraid of the dirt on my coat, the hunger in my eyes. I learned to stay away, to not even ask for help. Because, if I did, the only thing I ever received was rejection.
I’ve wandered through cities, fields, and forests, and everywhere I go, I find the same coldness. Some days, the hunger gnaws at me, and I search for scraps of food in trash bins, but there’s no one to share a meal with me. The nights are the hardest. As the sun sets and the world grows dark, I find a place to sleep, curled up against the cold pavement. The loneliness is a heavy blanket that presses down on me, and I dream of warmth, of a place where I am loved. But when I wake, I find myself still alone, still a stray dog with no home, no family.
There were times when I thought I had found love. I would see someone, a kind person, approach me with a smile. For a moment, I would think that maybe, just maybe, they would take me in, show me that I was worth something. But then they would just pet my head briefly, maybe throw me a treat, and leave. It always felt like a brief kindness, something they gave out of pity. It was never real love. I never felt the warmth of a home, the security of a place where I could belong.
Years passed, and I began to forget what love felt like. I started to believe that I would never experience it. That I was just meant to be alone, meant to roam the streets without a purpose. I don’t know what love is because no one has ever shown it to me. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone call me their own, to have someone care for me when I’m sick, to give me a name, a place, and most of all, affection. The world is vast, and I am small, lost in it, searching for something that seems so out of reach.
But deep down, there’s still a part of me that holds on to hope. Even after all these years, even after all the pain, I still dream of the day when someone might look at me and see more than just a stray dog. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll find that person who sees me for who I really am—an innocent soul, longing for love, hoping for a chance at a family. Maybe one day, I’ll get to feel what it’s like to belong, to be loved, to feel safe and warm.
Until then, I’ll continue to wander, continuing to search for a place where I can finally understand what love truly is. Maybe, just maybe, love will find me when I least expect it.
