Gin is a dog who has lived in a shelter since he was a baby. Seven years have passed since he was a cheerful puppy, his spirit slowly being eroded by the monotony of life in a kennel. Today, his seventh birthday, is a bitter irony.
He remembered the warmth of a human touch, the sound of laughter, the feeling of belonging. But those memories were fading, replaced by the harsh realities of shelter life. The constant barking, the smell of disinfectant, and the cold, hard kennel had become his world.
As the day wore on, people came and went, their eyes scanning the rows of kennels. Some stopped to coo and scratch, but none stayed long enough. Gin watched them with a mixture of hope and resignation. He’d learned to hope, and then to accept the inevitable.
As the day drew to a close, the shelter fell into a quietude broken only by the soft padding of paws and the occasional whimper. Gin curled up in his kennel, his body a worn-out vessel of a once vibrant spirit. He thought of the countless birthdays spent in this place, each one a marker of time slipping away. As sleep claimed him, he dreamed of a home, a soft bed, and the warmth of human companionship. But when he woke, the harsh reality of the shelter would be waiting, and the cycle would begin anew.
