On my birthday, I was deserted; as a small, neglected dog, I’ve been without food for days, feeling utterly unloved.

Birthdays are supposed to be special, a celebration of life and love. But for me, it was the day everything fell apart. As a small dog, I never understood the significance of a birthday, but I knew it was meant to be a happy time. Instead, on my birthday, I was deserted. I had always been a small, timid creature, but on that day, I realized how fragile I truly was. Neglected and forgotten, I’ve spent days without food, feeling utterly unloved and abandoned.

I wasn’t always alone. There was a time when I had a family—at least, I thought they were my family. They brought me home when I was just a puppy, all excited and full of energy. Back then, I was so small that I fit in the palm of their hands, and they seemed to love having me around. I remember running around their feet, playing with toys, and sleeping on the warm couch beside them. They used to call me “Lucky,” and for a while, I really felt like I was.

As I grew, though, things changed. They stopped playing with me as much. The laughter and attention I once received became rare, and my bed, once in the heart of the living room, was pushed to a far corner. I wasn’t allowed to sit on the couch anymore, and the pats on my head became less frequent. At first, I didn’t understand why. I hadn’t done anything wrong—at least, nothing more than a small dog might do. Occasionally, I would bark too much or chew on something I shouldn’t, but that was all part of being a puppy, wasn’t it? Yet, their affection toward me dwindled, and before I knew it, I was more of an afterthought than a part of their family.

The day of my birthday arrived, and I felt something was different. There was a strange quietness in the house. I watched from my corner as they packed bags and left in a hurry, barely acknowledging my presence. The door shut with a finality that chilled me. I waited, thinking they would return soon, maybe with a treat or a toy like they used to. But the hours ticked by, and no one came back. The once warm house felt colder, emptier, with only me in it.

That first night was hard. My stomach growled, and my throat was dry. I had no food, no water. I scratched at the door, hoping to get out, but it was shut tight. I barked for a while, but my voice echoed in the silence, unanswered. Eventually, I curled up in a small ball in the corner of the room, shivering not just from the cold but from the growing realization that I had been left behind.

The days that followed blurred together into a miserable haze. The hunger gnawed at me constantly, making me weak. My ribs started to show beneath my once shiny coat, which had now turned dull and matted. I searched every nook and cranny of the house, desperate to find anything to eat. But there was nothing. Not a single scrap of food had been left behind for me. I licked the empty bowls that had once been filled with water, hoping to quench my thirst, but they remained dry.

I started to feel the weight of neglect pressing down on me. The house that had once been full of life and noise now felt like a cage. I could hear the sounds of the outside world—the cars passing by, children laughing, people talking. But none of those sounds were for me. I was invisible, forgotten by the very people I thought loved me.

The loneliness was almost worse than the hunger. Dogs, like me, we thrive on companionship, on love. We give so much of ourselves to the people we care about, expecting little in return—just a pat on the head, a kind word, a little bit of attention. But here I was, utterly abandoned. I couldn’t understand it. What had I done to deserve this? All I ever wanted was to be loved, to be part of the family. Yet now, I was alone, isolated in a house that once felt like home but now felt like a prison.

As the days dragged on, my body grew weaker, but my heart felt heavier. The pain of being unwanted cut deeper than the sharp pangs of hunger in my stomach. Every time I heard a noise outside, I would perk up, thinking maybe they had come back for me. But they never did. The door remained closed, and I remained alone.

The thought that maybe this was the end crossed my mind more than once. I was too weak to keep barking, too tired to keep hoping. The tiny, flickering flame of optimism that had once burned inside me was slowly dying. My body, frail and exhausted, began to give up. I curled up in a corner, too tired to move, too drained to care. If this was how it would end, then so be it.

But just when I thought it was over, something unexpected happened. I heard footsteps, not from outside, but inside the house. The door creaked open, and I heard voices—unfamiliar but soft and comforting. My heart raced. Could it be them? Could they have finally come back for me? But as the footsteps grew closer, I realized these were strangers. I lifted my head as much as I could, too weak to even stand.