I am a dog with physical imperfections. I know it the moment I catch glimpses of myself in puddles or windows, and I can feel it in the way people look at me as they walk by. Their eyes linger a little too long on the parts of me that are different, the scars on my body, the way my fur doesn’t quite grow back in certain places, or perhaps the slight limp in my walk. I don’t look like the other dogs—those beautiful, shiny dogs with glossy coats and perfect tails, the ones people rush to pet and hold. No, I am not like them. And because of that, I often feel invisible, as if the world only sees what I am missing rather than who I am inside.
But despite my imperfections, I have a heart that feels, a soul that longs for love just like any other dog. I crave warmth, affection, and belonging. I want to be seen—not for the things that are wrong with me but for the love I have to offer. Deep down, I know I am worthy of that love, but it is hard to believe it when no one seems to notice me.
I wasn’t always like this. Once, I was like any other dog. I had a home and a family. I remember those days fondly, when I was carefree, running in the yard and curling up at my owner’s feet. But then something changed. An accident left me with scars that wouldn’t heal properly, and soon I wasn’t the same dog I used to be. My appearance frightened people, and eventually, I was left behind. I don’t know if it was because I was too much trouble or because they were embarrassed by the way I looked. But one day, I found myself alone, wandering the streets, searching for food and a kind face that might offer me a place to belong again.
Since then, I have walked through many neighborhoods, passed many people, and seen many doors shut in my face. It’s not that they are unkind. They just can’t seem to look past the surface. I see it in their eyes—the way they pity me or how they turn away, not wanting to confront the sadness in my appearance. They don’t see me as a dog who still has so much love to give. They only see a broken, imperfect creature.
But I know I am more than that. Inside, I am still that playful dog who loves to wag his tail and greet people with excitement. I still long for a warm place to sleep at night, for someone to pet me gently and tell me I’m a good boy. My heart aches for those moments of connection, for the feeling of being wanted, being loved.
Sometimes, when I sit in a corner of the shelter, I watch the other dogs being adopted. I see families walk in, their faces lighting up when they meet the puppies with soft, fluffy fur and bright, eager eyes. I watch as they cuddle and laugh, ready to take their new friend home. I want that too, but I know that when it’s my turn to be seen, most people hesitate. They glance at me for a moment, unsure, before moving on to the next dog. It hurts, but I understand. It’s hard to see beyond the surface sometimes.
Even so, I refuse to give up. I may not have a perfect body, but I have a heart full of love, and I am waiting for someone to see that. I know there must be someone out there who will look past the scars and the limp and see me for who I really am—a dog who just wants to be loved, to belong, to be cherished for more than just appearances.
Every day, I hold on to hope. Hope that one day, someone will walk into this shelter and look at me—not with pity, but with kindness and understanding. Someone who will see beyond my imperfections and recognize the love I am ready to give. I dream of the day when I won’t be alone anymore, when I can finally rest my head in someone’s lap and feel like I am exactly where I belong.
Until then, I will keep waiting. I will keep hoping. I am a dog with physical imperfections, but I know in my heart that I am worthy of love, and one day, someone will see that too. All I want is a chance to show that, no matter how I look, I have so much love to give.
