Another birthday comes and goes, but as a differently-abled stray dog, I remain unseen and unloved
Another birthday comes and goes, a silent marker of time that slips by unnoticed in the unremarkable existence of a stray dog. To many, birthdays are moments of joy, filled with celebrations and surrounded by loved ones. But for me, a differently-abled stray dog, these days are no different from the rest. They offer no respite from the harsh reality of my life on the streets—no parties, no gifts, no love. Just another day of struggle, invisibility, and longing.
My story is not one of dramatic highs or desperate lows; it is the story of a continuous, unchanging survival. Each day blends into the next, a relentless cycle of scavenging for food, finding shelter, and evading the dangers of the urban jungle. I am different from the other dogs I see around me. An old injury has left me with a limp, making my movements slow and labored. Once, I might have bounded across the streets with boundless energy, but now each step is a painful reminder of my limitations.
The injury happened so long ago that I can barely recall the specifics. It was a moment of vulnerability, a cruel twist of fate that left me with a permanent reminder of my weakness. The world is unforgiving, especially to those who cannot keep up, and my limp makes me an easy target for exclusion. Where once I might have been part of a pack, I now wander alone, my only companions the occasional stray who shares the same fate of abandonment.
Food is scarce and often hard to come by. I make do with what I can find, rummaging through trash bins and begging for scraps. Sometimes, a kind-hearted soul might toss me a morsel or two, but these moments of generosity are rare. More often than not, I am met with scorn or indifference. People pass me by with hurried steps, their eyes sliding over me as if I am a part of the background, an unimportant fixture in their busy lives. They do not see my struggle, my pain, or my loneliness. To them, I am merely a stray, an inconvenience to be avoided rather than a creature deserving of compassion.
The nights are the hardest. I find refuge in whatever shelter I can—an old cardboard box, a neglected alleyway, or under a bridge where the wind howls and the cold seeps into my bones. My limp becomes a source of constant discomfort, making it difficult to find a comfortable position or a place to rest. The cold is relentless, and the hunger gnaws at me, a reminder of my ongoing struggle for survival. I curl up as tightly as I can, trying to preserve whatever warmth I can muster, but the chill never quite leaves me.
In the few moments of daylight when I dare to venture closer to the bustling crowds, I am often met with a mix of curiosity and disdain. Children might point and giggle, their parents pulling them away, their faces twisting into frowns of disapproval. It is a painful reminder that, to many, I am not worth their attention or sympathy. I see them walking their well-fed, well-cared-for pets, and I cannot help but compare their lives to mine. They are cherished and loved, while I am left to fend for myself in a world that seems to care little for those who are different or disadvantaged.
My existence is marked by the passage of time, but not in a way that brings joy or fulfillment. Each birthday that passes is a testament to the life I have led, a life marked by hardship and invisibility. I have seen other dogs, once strays like me, find homes and families who love and care for them. Their stories are the stuff of fairy tales, a contrast to my own reality. I watch from the sidelines, my heart aching with a desire for something I can barely articulate—a life of warmth, care, and affection that seems forever out of reach.
Even as I endure the daily challenges of my life, there is a part of me that clings to a fragile hope. It is a hope that one day, someone might notice me—not just as a stray dog, but as a living being with feelings and a history. I hope that, perhaps, there might be a kind soul who sees past my limp and the grime of the streets, who recognizes the value of a creature deserving of love and compassion. But hope is a double-edged sword, a source of both comfort and pain. Each flicker of hope is followed by the stark reality of my situation, reminding me that such dreams are often just that—dreams.
So another birthday passes, and I remain as I have always been—unseen and unloved. The world moves on, indifferent to my existence, while I continue to navigate the harsh realities of life on the streets. I am a survivor, marked by resilience and a deep, unspoken yearning for something more. But as the sun sets and another day begins, I find myself back where I started, struggling to survive and hoping, perhaps in vain, for a glimpse of the compassion and love that seem to be reserved for those who are fortunate enough to have a place in the world.
