A stray dog like me wouldn’t know what a birthday is. I have no recollection of the day I was born or if anyone celebrated it. All I know are the days spent wandering these cold, unforgiving streets, scavenging for scraps and dodging the occasional kick or shout.
My earliest memories are blurry, filled with warmth that has long since faded. I remember a woman with kind hands who used to stroke my fur. I think she called me Buddy, or maybe it was something else. One day, I was left in a park, tied to a bench with nothing but a bowl of water. I waited for hours, thinking she would come back. But the sun set, and I realized I had been forgotten.
Life as a stray is a constant battle. Hunger gnaws at your belly, and fear is your only companion. The world is full of dangers—speeding cars, territorial dogs, and humans who see you as nothing more than a nuisance. I’ve learned to keep my head low and my hopes lower.
There was a time, though, when I thought things might change. One rainy evening, I found shelter under the porch of a house that smelled like freshly baked bread. A little girl spotted me and ran outside, despite her parents’ protests. She knelt in the mud, her tiny hands reaching out to me. For the first time in a long while, I felt something other than fear—I felt wanted.
She named me Toby. For a week, I lived like a king, with warm meals and soft blankets. But then her father decided I was too much trouble. One morning, he drove me to the edge of town and left me there. I chased the car until my legs gave out, barking until my voice was hoarse.
Now, I wander the streets again. Sometimes, I see families walking their dogs, celebrating what they call birthdays. They bring out treats and toys, singing songs I don’t understand. I wonder what it feels like to be so loved, to have a day that’s just for you.
Today is just another day for me. The wind is cold, and the smell of rain lingers in the air. I curl up under a broken bench, trying to ignore the ache in my stomach. As I drift into an uneasy sleep, I imagine a world where someone remembers me, where I am not just a nameless shadow on the streets.
A stray dog like me wouldn’t know what a birthday is. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance that one day, someone will see me—not as a stray, but as a friend worth celebrating. Until then, I’ll keep moving, holding onto a fragile hope that the world might still have a place for a forgotten soul like me.
