On my birthday, I feel incredibly alone; as a differently-abled stray dog, I’m hungry and abandoned with no love in sight
The world feels cold today, colder than usual. The wind cuts through the air, biting at my fur as I limp down the street, dragging my hind leg behind me. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember—my body not quite like the others, slower, weaker. Being differently-abled means surviving out here is twice as hard. It’s my birthday today, or at least I think it is. I don’t know the exact date anymore, but somewhere deep inside me, I know this day should be special. Instead, it feels like any other day, a day where the streets are my home and hunger is my only companion.
I stop for a moment to rest near an old bench, letting my body sink to the ground. My muscles ache, not just from hunger but from the constant effort it takes to move. The leg I drag behind me is useless, a burden that makes every step exhausting. I watch the people pass by, so busy with their lives, none of them giving me more than a passing glance. Sometimes they wrinkle their noses at the sight of me—dirty, limping, an ugly reminder of something they don’t want to see. It’s easier for them to look away, to pretend I’m not here, and that I don’t exist.
But I do exist. I feel every painful step, every sharp pang of hunger, and every bitter moment of loneliness. I exist in this forgotten corner of the world, where no one offers kindness or love. It’s a cruel existence, made even harder by the fact that I am different. While other strays can run, jump, and search for food with ease, I’m always lagging behind, left to pick at the scraps that no one else wants. I don’t remember how I became this way—whether I was born with this limp or if it came later. All I know is that it’s part of me now, a reminder of how hard life can be.
The sky is gray, threatening rain, but I have no shelter to go to. I can feel the rumble in my belly, a deep, aching hunger that never seems to fade. It’s been days since I’ve had anything more than a few bits of bread I found in a garbage bin. My mouth is dry, and every breath feels heavy, weighed down by the constant struggle to survive. On days like today, I wonder if I’ll ever make it through another night. I’ve seen other dogs like me, those who couldn’t keep going, their bodies left behind in alleys or by the side of the road. I don’t want to end up like that, but sometimes it feels inevitable.
I look down at my paws, scratched and dirty from endless walking. They used to be strong, capable, but now they tremble with exhaustion. I wonder what it would be like to have someone care for me, even just for a little while. To feel a hand on my head, to hear a voice telling me that everything will be okay. I’ve seen it before—other dogs with their humans, walking together, playing, sharing moments of love and affection. But for me, those moments seem like a distant dream. No one ever stops for a dog like me. No one bends down to pet the stray with the limp and the sad eyes.
It’s not just the hunger that eats away at me; it’s the loneliness. The world feels so vast and empty when you’re completely alone. On my birthday, I had hoped—foolishly—that maybe someone might notice me. Maybe someone would offer me a scrap of food, a kind word, or even just a glance that acknowledged my existence. But the hours pass, and nothing changes. I remain invisible, a shadow that moves through the streets, unnoticed and unloved.
I try to move again, but my body resists. The pain in my leg flares up, sharper now, and I have to stop to catch my breath. The others are long gone, the faster dogs who’ve found something to eat or a warm place to sleep. I envy them, not just for their strength but for the way they can disappear into the night, their problems less visible than mine. My limp makes it impossible to hide. I’m always exposed, always vulnerable. I hate it. I hate feeling like this—a burden, a creature no one wants to see.
The first drops of rain begin to fall, splashing onto the pavement around me. I need to find shelter, but I don’t have the energy to move quickly. I drag myself to a doorway, hoping it will be enough to keep me dry. The rain comes harder now, and I huddle close to the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible. I close my eyes and imagine a different life. I picture myself running freely, my legs strong and my body whole. I imagine the warmth of a bed, the feeling of a full stomach, and the sound of laughter around me. But when I open my eyes, the dream fades, and I’m left with the cold reality of the streets.
I wonder how long I can keep going like this. My body grows weaker by the day, and my spirit feels like it’s breaking. It’s hard to hold on to hope when every day feels the same—empty, painful, and lonely. I don’t want to give up, but there are moments when it feels like the only option. What’s the point of struggling when no one cares, when no one even notices that you exist?
As the rain pours down, I curl up as best I can, trying to find some warmth in the cold, wet streets. My stomach growls again, and I feel the familiar wave of nausea that comes with hunger. I wish, more than anything, that someone would come. That someone would see me, care for me, offer me a little bit of love. But deep down, I know that’s just another dream. The streets are all I have, and the streets don’t offer love. They only take.
Today is my birthday, but it doesn’t feel like a celebration. It feels like just another day of survival, another day of being hungry, abandoned, and forgotten. I close my eyes again, hoping that sleep will take away the pain, if only for a little while. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe tomorrow someone will see me. But for now, I’m still here, still alone, still waiting for a love that seems forever out of reach.
