My name is Buddy, though I wonder if I still deserve that name. It’s been months, maybe even years, since someone called me that. I’m an old dog now, with gray patches on my fur and a body that aches with every step. Tomorrow is my birthday—or at least the day my old family used to celebrate as my birthday. But I don’t want it to come. Birthdays remind me of a past I’ve tried so hard to forget.
I remember my first few birthdays so vividly. The house would fill with laughter, the children’s tiny hands stroking my fur as they placed a silly paper hat on my head. There would always be a small cake just for me, topped with little dog treats. I didn’t understand what a birthday was, but I knew it was a day filled with love and joy. Back then, I was their Buddy, their protector, and their best friend.
But as time went on, things began to change. The children grew older, and the giggles turned into hurried goodbyes as they rushed off to school or to see friends. My wagging tail at the door no longer excited them. I still waited, of course, hoping for a pat on the head or a kind word. Sometimes it came; most times, it didn’t.
Then, one day, everything changed forever. I remember the suitcases being packed and loaded into the car. The house echoed with emptiness as they moved out. I thought they would take me with them—I was their Buddy, after all. But instead, they left me behind. Alone.
I chased the car down the street until my legs couldn’t carry me anymore. I barked until my throat burned, hoping they’d hear me and turn back. But they didn’t. For days, I waited by the front door, convinced it was all a mistake. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, but the ache in my heart was worse.
My birthday came a few weeks after they left. I remember sitting in the overgrown yard, watching the sky turn orange as the sun set. There was no cake, no laughter, no silly hat—only silence. That day, I realized they weren’t coming back. Since then, every birthday feels like a cruel reminder of what I lost.
Now, I live on the streets, scavenging for scraps and shelter. Some days are harder than others. My paws are sore, and my once strong body is frail. I don’t chase cars anymore—I’ve learned that no one is coming for me.
But every now and then, I see families walking their dogs in the park. The sight tugs at something deep inside me. I remember the joy of belonging to someone, the warmth of a home, the feeling of being loved. And then I remember how it all ended, and the pain washes over me again.
So, tomorrow, when my birthday comes, I’ll find a quiet corner to curl up in. I’ll close my eyes and try not to think about the past. I don’t want to celebrate—I just want the day to pass like any other. Maybe, if I’m lucky, someone kind will toss me a piece of bread or stop to scratch behind my ears. It won’t erase the pain, but it’ll remind me that not all humans are the same.
Deep down, I still hope for a miracle. A family who will see me not as a burden but as a soul longing for love. Maybe one day, my birthdays won’t be something to dread. Until then, I’ll keep surviving, one day at a time. Because even though my heart is heavy, I’m still here, hoping for a brighter tomorrow.
