Today was supposed to be a special day—my birthday. I’m 18 months old now, still young, still learning, but old enough to understand that birthdays are meant to be joyful. I woke up early, the way I always do, wagging my tail and hoping today might feel different, brighter, happier.
I live in a small backyard with a cozy little doghouse that my owner built when I was just a tiny pup. I remember when it smelled of fresh wood, and I proudly called it my castle. Now, the paint has started to peel, and the once-soft bedding inside feels rough, but I’ve always found comfort in it. This morning, I peeked out of my doghouse, the sunlight warm on my face.
I waited.
I waited for the door to the house to open, for my owner to step outside and say, “Happy birthday, boy!” I imagined him holding a special treat or even just ruffling my ears the way he used to. But the door didn’t open. Instead, I heard the faint hum of the television and the clink of dishes from inside.
I tried not to feel sad. I told myself, “Maybe he’s busy right now. He’ll come out later.” To pass the time, I chased my tail in circles, hoping to distract myself. The sound of my own paws on the ground felt oddly comforting, but my heart still ached a little.
Hours passed. The sun climbed high in the sky, and the heat became unbearable. I curled up in the shade of a tree, my stomach rumbling. My water bowl was half-empty, and my food bowl was just as it was yesterday—no special birthday meal, just the same dry kibble.
As the afternoon dragged on, I began to lose hope. The neighborhood kids played outside, their laughter carried on the breeze. I thought of how I used to run with them, fetching sticks and chasing balls. But they hadn’t come to see me in weeks. Maybe they had outgrown me.
By evening, the shadows grew longer, and the sky turned a deep orange. I sat by the gate, staring at the road, wondering if anyone might come by. A part of me still hoped someone would remember—a neighbor, a friend, anyone. But no one came.
Finally, as the first stars appeared, I retreated to my doghouse. My heart felt heavy, and the world seemed so quiet. I curled up on my tattered blanket, pressing my nose against my paws. I whispered to myself, “Happy birthday,” because no one else had.
And yet, even in the silence, I found a small glimmer of gratitude. I thought of the days when my owner did care, when he’d toss a ball and laugh as I stumbled after it. I thought of the time he built this doghouse for me, carefully nailing each plank into place. I held onto those memories tightly, like a warm blanket on a cold night.
As I drifted to sleep, I made a little wish. I wished that someday, I’d have a birthday filled with love, with pats on the head, warm hugs, and maybe even a special treat. I wished for a moment when someone would look at me and see more than just a dog, but a friend, a companion, a soul who only wanted to be loved.
Maybe next year will be different. Maybe someone will remember me then. Until that day, I’ll keep waiting, tail wagging, ready to share my love with anyone who notices. After all, that’s what dogs do—we love, unconditionally, no matter how lonely the day may feel.
