Put didn’t know his exact birthday, but the shelter workers had marked the day he arrived as his special day. Today was that day, the eighth anniversary of the day his world had shrunk to the confines of a kennel.
Eight years. A lifetime for a dog. Eight years of endless barks echoing down sterile corridors, of tail wags that went unnoticed, of hopes that were repeatedly dashed. He was a big dog, black and white, with eyes that held the color of the stormy sea. Once, they might have sparkled with joy, but now they held only a quiet resignation.
The other dogs were barking excitedly. It was morning, and breakfast time always brought a surge of canine optimism. But Put merely lifted his head, his long ears drooping. He didn’t care much for food today. He watched the humans as they went about their routines, their laughter and chatter a distant melody.
He dreamed of a home, a real home. Not a kennel, no matter how clean, but a place with a soft rug to curl up on, a warm lap to rest his head, and a human who looked at him with eyes full of love. He’d seen it in movies, this idyllic picture of a dog and his person. It made his heart ache.
Today, more than any other day, the loneliness pressed in on him like a heavy blanket. He was just a big, goofy dog. He loved to play fetch, to go for walks, to cuddle. Why couldn’t someone see that? Why couldn’t he be someone’s everything?
As the day wore on, the shelter grew quiet. The visitors had gone, the staff were busy with evening chores. Put was alone with his thoughts, or rather, with the absence of them. There was nothing left to hope for, nothing left to dream. He curled up in his bed, his tail tucked beneath him, and closed his eyes. Maybe in his sleep, he could find the home he longed for.
Tomorrow was another day, and with it, another chance. But as of now, on this, his eighth birthday, all Put wanted was to disappear into the quiet night, to fade away like an old, forgotten memory.
