Pom didn’t understand “ugly.” He understood the warmth of the sun on his fur, the satisfying crunch of a dry leaf under his paws, the exciting scents that swirled in the wind. He understood the joy of a good belly rub and the comfort of a kind voice. But “ugly”? That was a human word, a concept he couldn’t quite grasp.
His face was…different. His snout was a little crooked, one ear stood perked while the other drooped endearingly, and a small scar traced a line above his right eye. He’d seen his reflection in puddles – a distorted image that didn’t seem to bother him much. It was just his face, after all.
He’d spend his days exploring the park, his tail wagging with optimistic enthusiasm. He’d approach people with a friendly wiggle, hoping for a pat or a kind word. But often, he was met with quick glances, averted eyes, and sometimes even a slight recoil.
He’d hear the whispers, hushed comments that drifted on the breeze. “Look at his face,” they’d say, their voices tinged with pity or sometimes even a hint of fear. “He looks…scary.”
At first, Pom was confused. He didn’t understand why people reacted to him this way. He wasn’t scary. He was gentle, affectionate, and eager to please. He just wanted to say hello, to share a moment of connection.
But as the rejections piled up, a quiet sadness began to settle in his heart. He started to notice the way people’s smiles faltered when they saw him, the way they’d pull their children closer, the way they’d cross the street to avoid him.
He’d often find a quiet spot under a tree, his head resting on his paws, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He’d think about the whispers, the averted eyes, the subtle signs of rejection. He couldn’t see himself as others did, but he could feel the weight of their perceptions.
He’d think, Do they not like me because of my face? Do they think I’m scary? Are they avoiding me because I’m…ugly? The questions echoed in his mind, a constant, nagging worry. He’d look down at his paws, then back up at the passing people, his tail tucked low.
He longed for the same kind of interactions he saw other dogs enjoying: the gentle pats, the loving words, the bright smiles. He longed to feel accepted, to feel like he belonged. He didn’t understand why his appearance mattered so much. He was still the same dog inside, full of love and loyalty.
He couldn’t change his face. He hadn’t chosen to be born with a crooked snout and mismatched ears. But he hoped, with a quiet desperation, that one day, someone would see past his outward appearance and recognize the gentle soul that resided within. He hoped that someone would understand that true beauty wasn’t about outward appearances, but about the kindness and love that shone from within. He just wanted to be accepted, just as he was, crooked snout and all. He just wanted to know that he wasn’t being avoided because he was “ugly” or “scary.” He just wanted to be loved.
