Every morning, I wake up to the same dull ache that runs through my body. My leg throbs, my face feels heavy with the weight of the tumor that has grown there. It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be so different from everyone else, to be seen as a creature so unworthy of love, so out of place in a world that only seems to accept perfection.
I know I am not like the other dogs. I can see their bright eyes, their strong legs, and the way they bound around with joy and energy. I watch them with longing as they run through the grass, chasing after their owners, feeling the warmth of affection and care. But me? I have never known such freedom.
My leg is crippled, my body is ugly and weak. That makes me isolated and mocked by those around me. People stare at me in disgust when I hobble by. Children laugh and point, some even run away as if I might hurt them—when all I want is to be loved. It’s painful to watch, but I don’t know how to change. I wish I could run, play, or even just walk without feeling the heavy weight of judgment following me. I wish my face wasn’t so scarred, my body wasn’t so frail. But these are the cards I’ve been dealt.
Every day, I find a quiet corner to rest in. I curl up as small as I can, trying to avoid the stares, the whispers. But no matter how much I try to shrink away, I am still visible. I still hear the harsh voices that call me ugly, that tell me I’m not worthy of love or affection. I am not like the other dogs they adore, the ones they take home to snuggle on the couch or walk in the park. I am nothing but a broken creature, and no one seems to want me.
It’s so lonely, sometimes. I dream of a place where I am not judged by my appearance, where my crippled leg and deformed face don’t define me. I dream of someone who will see past the ugliness and recognize the love I have to give. I may not be able to run, but I can still offer warmth and comfort. I may be scarred, but my heart is not. I may be weak, but my desire for companionship is strong.
But even in the midst of my loneliness, I don’t give up. I still wag my tail when someone walks by, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they will see the real me—the one that is kind, loving, and longing for a home. I still look up at the sky and dream of a better tomorrow, where someone will choose me, where I will finally find a family that loves me for who I am, not for how I look.
For now, I wait. I wait for the day when I will no longer be isolated, when I will no longer be mocked. I wait for someone to look at me and see beyond the imperfections, beyond the weakness, and see the loyal companion I know I can be.
Please, someone—look at me and see the love I have to offer.
