Today was supposed to be special. My birthday. I know because my owner used to mark it on the calendar. Last year, there was a little celebration—a small cake made just for me, some colorful decorations, and my favorite squeaky toy wrapped in shiny paper. I remember wagging my tail so much that day, feeling like the happiest dog in the world. But this year… this year is different.
I spent the day lying on the old rug by the window, staring outside as the world moved on without noticing me. The sun rose and fell, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples. But no one said, “Happy Birthday.” No one remembered.
It’s not that I expect grand things. I don’t need balloons or fancy presents. I just miss the feeling of being special, even for a moment. My owner, who used to dote on me, has been so busy lately. She rushes out in the morning, her face full of worry, and comes back late at night, too tired to even notice the wag of my tail.
I tried to remind her this morning. I nudged her hand gently with my nose, hoping she’d remember. She only patted my head absentmindedly and muttered something about being late for work. I watched her leave, the door clicking shut behind her, and my heart sank.
The hours dragged on. I wandered to the kitchen, hoping to find a treat, but the bowl was empty. The silence in the house felt heavier than usual, pressing down on me. I thought about the birthdays I used to have—the love, the laughter, the way she’d sing a silly song just for me.
By evening, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. Not because I wanted anything extravagant, but because it felt like I didn’t matter anymore. I curled up on the rug, my body heavy with disappointment, and closed my eyes.
Then, a sound startled me—the creak of the front door opening. My ears perked up as I saw her walk in, carrying a small bag. She looked tired, but there was something different in her expression. She knelt down beside me, placing the bag on the floor, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
From the bag, she pulled out a small cupcake with a single candle on top. It wasn’t much, but in that moment, it felt like the world to me. She lit the candle, her voice soft as she sang, “Happy Birthday.” I could see the guilt in her eyes, but also the love.
She placed the cupcake in front of me, and for the first time all day, my tail wagged. It wasn’t about the cupcake or the candle—it was about being seen, about knowing I still mattered to her. She sat beside me, stroking my fur, and promised, “I’ll do better. You deserve the best.”
As I took a bite of the cupcake, savoring the sweetness, I realized something important. Birthdays aren’t about the size of the celebration but the love behind it. And even though the day had started with sadness, it ended with a moment that reminded me I was loved.
So, here I am, lying beside her on the rug, my heart feeling lighter. I don’t feel sorry for myself anymore. Instead, I feel grateful—for the small cupcake, for her gentle touch, and for the promise that even on the hardest days, love finds its way back.
