I wasn’t always aware that I was different. As a puppy, I played just like the others—chasing my tail, tumbling over my siblings, and wagging my tail at every kind soul who passed by. I believed that every dog deserved love, no matter what they looked like. But the world didn’t see me that way.
As I grew, my fur became patchy, my belly rounder than the others, and my legs short and stubby. I wasn’t sleek or graceful like the dogs people adored. I was clumsy, slow, and, according to the whispers I overheard, “ugly.” People would stop to admire my siblings, reaching out with gentle hands to pet them. But when they saw me, their expressions would change. Some would chuckle, others would shake their heads. “Not that one,” they’d say. “He’s too fat, too strange-looking.”
One by one, my siblings found homes, leaving me behind. Days turned into weeks, and soon, I was alone. The shelter workers tried to comfort me, patting my head and saying I was just as deserving of love. But deep down, I knew—people wanted beautiful dogs, not a chubby, awkward one like me.
Then came the day I was taken to the street. The shelter had no more space, and I had no family to claim me. I wandered through the city, searching for food, for warmth, for someone to look at me with kindness. But all I found were closed doors and cold stares.
I learned to survive, digging through trash bins for scraps and curling up under broken benches when the nights grew too cold. Children would point at me and laugh, calling me names. Some people would throw food at me, not to feed me, but to see if I would chase after it like a joke. Others simply ignored me, as if I didn’t exist.
I often watched from afar as other dogs were cherished—dressed in warm sweaters, taken on joyful walks, and cuddled in soft beds. I wondered what it felt like to be held with love, to have a name that someone called with affection. Did I not deserve that, too?
One day, as I lay by a café, my stomach aching from hunger, a little girl walked up to me. I braced myself for the usual laughter or disgust, but instead, she knelt down and reached out a small hand.
“You’re a good boy,” she said softly.
For the first time in what felt like forever, someone saw me—not as a joke, not as something unworthy, but as a living soul. Her parents hesitated, whispering to each other, before finally nodding.
That day, my life changed.
The little girl took me home, where I was given a bath, a warm bed, and more food than I had ever seen in my life. She named me something sweet, something I had never had before. And when I looked into her eyes, I saw what I had longed for all my life—acceptance.
I may not be beautiful, but to her, I was perfect.
And for the first time, I finally believed it, too.
