My name is Buddy, and I am a dog, just like any other. I have four legs, a wagging tail, and a heart full of love. But unlike many dogs, I can’t see the world around me. I was born with blindness, and it has been a part of me for as long as I can remember. Sometimes, I wonder if that makes me different—if it makes me less deserving of the kindness that so many other dogs receive.
I live with my owner, Sarah, a kind woman who rescued me from a shelter when I was just a puppy. She knew about my blindness, but that didn’t stop her from taking me into her home. She held me close that first night, whispering promises of love, and I could feel the warmth of her embrace. I may not be able to see her face, but I could sense the kindness in her touch and the way her voice softened when she spoke to me. That gave me comfort.
Growing up, I learned to navigate the world without sight. My other senses—my sense of smell, hearing, and touch—became my guides. I could tell when Sarah was near by the sound of her footsteps or the scent of her perfume. I could hear the rustling of leaves as we walked together in the park, and though I couldn’t see the colorful flowers or the blue sky, I could feel the warmth of the sun on my fur. I knew that there was a beautiful world out there, even if I couldn’t experience it in the same way that other dogs could.
But sometimes, I feel lonely. I wonder if people see me as different. I know that dogs with bright, shining eyes often get more attention, more admiration, more affection. They run happily in the park, their eyes sparkling as they chase after balls, while I remain on the sidelines, guided only by my other senses. I’ve seen other dogs receive compliments—“You’re such a good boy!” or “Look at those beautiful eyes!”—and I often wonder, “Can a blind dog like me receive well wishes from everyone?”
There are days when I feel small, when the world feels vast and overwhelming, and I wish I could see it just once. I would love to look into Sarah’s eyes and see the love that I feel when she gazes at me. I want to see the faces of the people who stop by to pet me and give me treats. Sometimes, when I’m lying in my bed, I imagine what it would be like to watch the birds fly across the sky or the children playing in the yard. But I have to make do with the world I know—the one where my other senses tell me everything I need to know.
One day, something changed. We were at the park, and I was sniffing the familiar scents, feeling the breeze on my fur. A group of children approached us, laughing and playing with their toys. At first, I hesitated, unsure if they would want to interact with a blind dog. But then, one little girl came forward, her tiny hand reaching out to me. “Hello, doggie,” she said sweetly. “You’re so special.”
Her voice was full of warmth, and as she gently petted my head, I felt a warmth inside me that I had never known before. The other children gathered around, and they all took turns petting me, calling me “sweet,” “cute,” and “good boy.” I could hear their laughter and the joy in their voices, and for the first time, I felt truly seen—not because of my eyes, but because of the love I could feel in their touch and in their words.
That moment was a turning point for me. I realized that, although I couldn’t see like other dogs, my worth wasn’t tied to my blindness. People could still love me, care for me, and appreciate me for who I was—blind eyes and all. The world didn’t have to be about what I could see with my eyes; it was about the connections I made, the bonds I shared, and the love I received. And in that moment, I felt loved, truly and deeply.
From that day on, I began to embrace my blindness in a new way. I stopped worrying about being different. I could hear the well wishes from everyone who met me, and I could feel their kindness in the way they treated me. Whether it was Sarah, the children at the park, or the neighbors who gave me treats, I knew that I was loved. I didn’t need to see to feel their affection. I could feel it with every pat on my head, every scratch behind my ears, every kind word that was spoken to me.
Today, I am no longer afraid to ask, “Can a blind dog like me receive well wishes from everyone?” Because the answer is yes. Yes, I can. My blindness doesn’t define me—it’s simply a part of who I am. And I am so much more than that. I am Buddy, a dog who is loved, cherished, and seen for all the wonderful things I bring to this world, even if I can’t see it all myself.
So, to everyone who has ever shown me kindness, to everyone who has petted me or smiled at me, I want to say thank you. Your well wishes mean more to me than I could ever express. I may not see you with my eyes, but I see you with my heart. And that is enough.
