Bartholomew, or Barty as he preferred (though no one had ever actually asked him his preference), knew he was different. His front legs bowed outwards at an unusual angle, giving him a comical, almost Chaplin-esque waddle. His snout was a bit crooked, and one ear perpetually drooped, giving him a perpetually quizzical expression. He’d seen the quick glances, the stifled giggles, the pitying looks. He knew he wasn’t the picture of canine perfection.
He’d watch the other dogs at the park, their sleek coats gleaming in the sunlight, their movements fluid and graceful as they chased frisbees and bounded after squirrels. He longed to join in the fun, to feel the wind in his fur as he ran alongside them, but his bowed legs held him back. He’d watch from the sidelines, his tail giving a tentative thump against the ground, a quiet longing in his eyes.
He’d overheard the whispers too. “Poor thing,” they’d say, their voices laced with pity. “It’s a shame about his legs.” He didn’t understand why it was a shame. His legs might have been different, but they carried him just fine, thank you very much. He could still sniff out the most interesting smells, dig the most satisfying holes, and give the most enthusiastic tail wags.
He couldn’t change his appearance. He hadn’t chosen to be born with bowed legs and a crooked snout. But he could choose how he lived his life. He could choose to be happy, to be friendly, to be loving. He could choose to embrace his differences and show the world that he was more than just his physical appearance.
He’d greet every human interaction with a happy wiggle and a wet nose nudge, his eyes filled with unwavering optimism. He’d chase butterflies with unwavering enthusiasm, his wobbly gait not hindering his joy in the slightest. He’d offer gentle licks to anyone who offered a kind word, a silent thank you for seeing past his outward appearance.
He knew some people would still look at him with pity, some would still whisper behind his back. But he refused to let their perceptions define him. He was determined to live a full and happy life, to show the world that he was just as worthy of love and acceptance as any other dog.
He’d think, I didn’t choose how I look, but I can choose how I live. I can choose to be happy. I can choose to be a good dog. And that’s exactly what he did. He chose joy, he chose kindness, he chose to live his life to the fullest, hoping that one day, people would see him, truly see him, and accept him, not in spite of his differences, but because of the resilient and loving spirit that shone through. He knew he could choose his way of life, and he chose to live it with an open heart, hoping for the same in return.
