On my birthday, I feel isolated; as a differently-abled stray dog, I’m hungry and without love, feeling completely abandoned
The world feels distant today, as if it’s drifting away from me, leaving me stranded in my own misery. It’s my birthday, and instead of feeling joy, I feel an overwhelming sense of isolation. There’s no one to celebrate with, no familiar face to greet me, no warm voice to say “Happy Birthday.” As a differently-abled stray dog, the reality of my life weighs heavily on me. My twisted leg, a deformity that I’ve carried for as long as I can remember, has always made survival harder. But today, the loneliness is sharper than the usual pain in my leg, cutting deeper than any physical wound ever could.
I limp slowly down the street, my body worn from days of wandering. My leg drags behind me, a constant reminder that I’m different from the others. The world feels like it’s moving faster than I can keep up with. I watch as people hurry by, their faces lost in their own concerns, their eyes never meeting mine. I’ve learned not to expect much from humans. They see me, but they don’t *really* see me. I’m just another stray, another dog lost in the chaos of the city, and to them, I’m something to be ignored, an inconvenience, or worse, a burden.
I wasn’t always like this, at least I don’t think so. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I try to remember a time before I was alone, before I was limping through these streets. But the memories are faint, like shadows in the back of my mind. Did I ever belong to someone? Did I ever have a home? I can’t be sure anymore. All I know now is the present—an endless stretch of days where I search for food, shelter, and some trace of kindness. The streets have become my life, and they are harsh, unforgiving.
Hunger gnaws at my stomach, a constant companion that I can never shake. It’s been days since I had a proper meal. Most of the time, I scavenge through trash bins, hoping to find a few scraps that others have thrown away. Sometimes I get lucky and find a piece of bread or a half-eaten sandwich. But those moments are rare. Today, on my birthday, it seems like even the trash has abandoned me. The bins are empty, and the smells of food from nearby restaurants only make the hunger more unbearable. I can hear the rumble of my stomach, a painful reminder of how little I’ve eaten.
I stop near the entrance of a small shop, my body aching from the effort of walking. My leg throbs, each step sending a sharp pain through my side. I try to rest, hoping that someone might notice me, might offer me a scrap of food or even just a kind word. But no one stops. They walk past me, their eyes focused on their phones, their minds somewhere else. I don’t blame them anymore. I’ve learned that the world doesn’t have room for dogs like me. I’m too broken, too different, too much of a reminder that life doesn’t always go as planned.
The rain starts to fall, a light drizzle at first, but soon it’s coming down harder, soaking my fur and making the cold seep into my bones. I shiver, trying to find shelter under the awning of a building, but it doesn’t offer much protection. The wind blows the rain sideways, and soon I’m drenched, my fur matted and clinging to my skin. I think about how nice it would be to have a warm, dry place to sleep. A bed, maybe, or even just a soft patch of grass under a tree. But all the places I used to go have been taken over by other strays, or worse, humans who chase me away with angry shouts and thrown objects.
Being differently-abled has made life even more difficult. While the other dogs can run, scavenge, and fight for food, I’m always one step behind, always struggling to keep up. My leg slows me down, and the pain it causes is a constant reminder of my vulnerability. I’ve had to learn how to avoid danger, how to slip away when bigger dogs approach or when humans start to get too close. It’s a lonely way to live, always on guard, always afraid of being hurt again.
As night begins to fall, the streets empty out, and the city becomes quieter. I manage to find a small corner in an alleyway, just big enough to curl up in and stay somewhat dry. The cold is biting, and my stomach growls again, but there’s nothing I can do. I’ve been searching for food all day with no luck. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the hunger and the cold, trying to push away the feeling of abandonment that sits like a weight in my chest.
I wonder if anyone, anywhere, knows it’s my birthday. I wonder if, in some other life, I had a family that celebrated with me, that gave me a treat or a pat on the head, or even just some recognition that I mattered. But those thoughts are too painful, so I push them away. The reality is that I’m here, alone, with no one to care for me, no one to notice that I exist. And as much as I try to stay strong, some days—like today—are harder than others.
There’s a part of me that still hopes, though. A small, fragile part that believes maybe, just maybe, something will change. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find food. Maybe someone will see me and offer me shelter, even if just for a night. Maybe the world isn’t as cruel as it seems. But that hope feels distant, like a dream that’s too far out of reach. Tonight, all I have is the cold, the hunger, and the rain.
On my birthday, I had hoped for something different. I had hoped for warmth, for love, for a reminder that I’m not completely forgotten. But instead, I am here, a differently-abled stray dog, limping through the streets, hungry and alone. The world continues to move around me, indifferent to my suffering. And as much as I want to believe that tomorrow will be better, deep down I know that the streets are all I have. There’s no love in sight, only the endless struggle to survive.
