On my birthday, as a stray dog with nowhere to go, no one wished me well or showed me love—I’m still wandering the streets
The sun was barely rising when I woke up, its first rays casting long shadows across the empty streets. It’s my birthday today, or at least I think it is. There’s something about this day that feels different, but not in a way that brings joy or excitement. Instead, it’s a bittersweet reminder that time is passing and nothing has changed. I’m still here, wandering the same streets, with no home to return to, no family to belong to, and no one to wish me well. The world around me moves on, but I stay stuck in this endless loop of searching, hoping, and ultimately, being forgotten.
As I walk along the cracked pavement, I catch the scent of food in the air, making my stomach rumble. I haven’t eaten since yesterday—if you can even call that a meal. It was just a piece of bread I found in a trash bin, half-soaked with rainwater. But for me, it was enough to stave off hunger for a little while. I know today will be the same. The search for food is constant, and I’ve grown used to the gnawing emptiness in my belly. It’s part of the life I lead, just like the loneliness that clings to me.
I pass by a few humans as I wander through the streets. Some of them look at me with mild curiosity, but most don’t even glance in my direction. I’m invisible to them. Just a stray dog, another nameless creature on the edge of their world. I wish they would see me, really see me. Not just as an inconvenience or a fleeting nuisance, but as something more—a living being who feels hunger, pain, and longing, just like them. But their lives are full, and mine is empty. So, I keep walking, hoping for something to change but knowing deep down that it won’t.
I see other dogs with their owners, trotting happily alongside them, tails wagging with joy. They are loved. They have homes. They have people who care for them. I wonder what that must feel like, to have someone who waits for you, who feeds you, who pats your head and tells you that you’re a good dog. It’s a dream that feels so far out of reach, I almost laugh at myself for even imagining it. I don’t belong in that world. I belong here, on the streets, where the days blend into one another and survival is the only thing that matters.
It’s strange how life can feel so empty on a day that’s supposed to be special. A birthday should mean something. It should be a day of joy, a day where you feel appreciated and loved. But for me, it’s just another reminder of how alone I am. There’s no one to wish me a happy birthday, no one to offer me a treat or a warm place to rest. Instead, I’ll spend the day as I always do, wandering from place to place, scavenging for food, and trying to find shelter before the sun sets and the cold night air settles in.
I walk past a park where children are playing. Their laughter fills the air, and for a moment, I’m drawn to it. I watch as they chase each other, their joy contagious. A part of me wants to run over, to join in their play, to feel the warmth of human contact, even if just for a moment. But I know better. I’ve tried before, and it never ends well. People don’t want stray dogs near their children. They think I’m dirty, diseased, a threat. So, I keep my distance, watching from the sidelines as life happens without me.
As the day drags on, the sun climbs higher in the sky, its heat beating down on the pavement. I’m tired, but I keep walking. There’s no place for me to stop, no home waiting for me, no soft bed to curl up in. The streets are all I know, and they are unforgiving. I pass by shops and restaurants, the smell of food making my hunger pangs worse. But I’ve learned not to beg. People don’t like that. Sometimes they get angry, and sometimes they just ignore me. Either way, it’s better to stay invisible.
The hours slip away, and soon the sky begins to darken. The day is nearly over, and with it, my birthday. It came and went without fanfare, without even the smallest acknowledgment. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything different. After all, who would celebrate a stray dog’s birthday? But still, a part of me had hoped. Hoped for something, even if it was just a kind word or a piece of food. Hoped that someone would see me, if only for a moment, and recognize that I, too, deserve love and care. But the streets don’t offer love, and I know that.
As night falls, I find a quiet corner to rest in. It’s not much, just a small space between two buildings where the wind doesn’t cut as sharply. I curl up, trying to make myself as small as possible to stay warm. My body aches from the day’s wandering, and my stomach is still empty. But it’s nothing new. This is my life. Every day is the same, and I’ve learned to accept it. But tonight, there’s a heaviness in my heart that I can’t shake. It’s my birthday, and I’m still alone. No one wished me well. No one showed me love. I’m just a stray dog, wandering the streets, forgotten by the world.
As I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but wonder if things will ever change. Will I ever know what it feels like to have a home, to be loved, to be part of something bigger than myself? Or will I always be a stray, moving from one place to another, searching for scraps and shelter, never finding the warmth and comfort that others take for granted? I don’t know the answer. All I know is that today, on my birthday, I’m still here. Still wandering. Still waiting for a love that may never come.
