I wasn’t always like this—strapped into a pink wheelchair, my hind legs useless beneath me. I once ran through fields, chasing butterflies and leaping over puddles like I owned the world. Back then, I had no idea how precious those moments were.
My life changed one sunny afternoon when a speeding car swerved onto the sidewalk where I stood with my tail wagging, waiting for my owner to finish her coffee. The next thing I knew, pain exploded through my body, and everything went dark.
When I woke up, the world was different. My legs wouldn’t move. I couldn’t feel them, no matter how hard I tried. My owner, Lily, was beside me, her face streaked with tears. She stroked my head gently and whispered, “It’s going to be okay, my sweet Ruby.” But deep down, I could see the worry in her eyes.
Adjusting to my new life wasn’t easy. The vet said I would never walk again. They fitted me with a wheelchair, a strange contraption that felt heavy and awkward at first. It took weeks of practice before I could figure out how to move in it. I fell so many times that I lost count, but Lily was always there to lift me back up, her voice full of encouragement.
“Good girl, Ruby,” she’d say, even when I felt far from good.
But it wasn’t just the wheelchair that made life hard. It was the way people looked at me. When Lily and I walked through the park, children would point and whisper. Some parents would pull them away, as if I were something to be afraid of. Other dogs avoided me, their owners tugging on leashes to keep them from getting too close.
I wanted to tell them, “I’m not a bad dog. I’m just… different.”
Lily never let me feel less than whole. She bought me a new pink harness and decorated my wheelchair with flowers, calling me her “warrior princess.” She took me everywhere—cafes, parks, even on trips to the countryside. Slowly, I started to realize that not everyone saw me as broken.
One day, at the park, a little boy approached us. He had a cast on his leg and hobbled over on crutches. His parents watched nervously from a distance, but he ignored them.
“Can I pet her?” he asked Lily.
She smiled and nodded. “Of course.”
The boy crouched down and gently ran his hand over my fur. “She’s like me,” he said softly, pointing to his cast.
“Yes,” Lily replied, her voice warm. “But she’s strong, just like you.”
That moment gave me hope. Maybe being different wasn’t something to be ashamed of. Maybe it was something to embrace.
Over time, I met more kind-hearted people who didn’t shy away from my wheelchair or my unsteady movements. They saw beyond my disability and treated me like any other dog. Some even told Lily that I inspired them, that my resilience reminded them to keep going no matter what life threw at them.
But still, there are moments when I feel the sting of rejection. I see the pity in people’s eyes, hear the whispered comments about how sad my life must be. I wish I could tell them that my life isn’t sad at all. I have Lily, who loves me fiercely. I have my pink wheelchair, which gives me the freedom to explore the world again. I have a warm bed, good food, and the joy of chasing balls, even if I do it a little differently now.
I may not run like other dogs, but I can still love, play, and bring joy to those around me. I’m not a bad dog. I’m not broken. I’m just Ruby—a dog with a story, a heart full of love, and a spirit that refuses to give up.
So, if you see a dog like me someday, don’t turn away. Don’t feel sorry for us. We may be different, but we’re still here, wagging our tails and waiting for a chance to show the world that we’re more than our disabilities. We’re not bad dogs. We’re just dogs with a little extra courage.
