I often hear people talk about birthdays, a day filled with love, joy, and celebration. But for me, it’s a concept as distant as the stars. What is a birthday? For many years, I have never had one celebrated.
I’m just a dog, a stray for most of my life. I was born somewhere cold and damp, under a rusty old car in an alley. My mother tried her best to keep us warm, but life on the streets is unforgiving. One by one, my siblings disappeared—some taken by kind strangers, others lost to the dangers of this harsh world. I was the smallest of the litter, often overlooked, and I learned to fend for myself.
The passing of time on the streets is measured not by dates but by seasons. Summers meant thirst, endless wandering in search of water. Winters brought biting cold, where I’d curl up in whatever nook I could find to escape the frost. In spring, people seemed happier, but even their joy didn’t reach me. Fall brought falling leaves, but for me, it just meant more nights alone.
Once, I watched through a window as a family celebrated a child’s birthday. There were balloons, laughter, and a cake glowing with candles. The little boy’s face lit up as everyone sang to him. I tilted my head, trying to understand. Was this a birthday? Was it a special day just for him? My tail wagged at the thought, but reality quickly pulled me back as I turned away from the warm light to face the cold street again.
My life changed one rainy afternoon. Weak and hungry, I sought shelter under a porch. That’s when I met her—a woman with kind eyes and a soft voice. She knelt down, offering me a piece of bread. For the first time in years, I felt something stir in my chest: hope.
She took me home, cleaned me up, and gave me a warm bed. I didn’t know how to act at first. Was this real? Would it last? Days turned into weeks, and I slowly began to trust her. She called me her “special boy,” and for the first time, I felt like I belonged.
One morning, she surprised me with a strange sight—a small cake with a single candle and a colorful hat she gently placed on my head. “Happy birthday, sweet boy,” she said, her voice filled with love. My tail wagged furiously as I sniffed the cake, unsure if it was meant for me. She laughed, clapping her hands as she encouraged me to take a bite.
So this was a birthday. It was a day filled with love, a celebration of life, and a reminder that I was special. Tears welled in her eyes as she hugged me close, whispering, “Every year, we’ll celebrate your birthday together from now on.”
For years, I had wondered what a birthday was. Now I know. It’s not about cakes or candles; it’s about feeling loved and cherished. And though I missed so many birthdays in my past, I am grateful that I will never miss another one again.
