Jura’s world was a tactile one. He couldn’t see the vibrant colors of the world, the way sunlight dappled through leaves, or the expressions on faces. His world was built of textures: the rough bark of trees, the cool smoothness of tile, the soft give of his mother’s fur. It was also a world of scents: the earthy smell of damp soil, the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers, the comforting aroma of his mother’s familiar scent.
His mother, a gentle, patient soul, had always been his guide. She’d nuzzle him gently, her warm breath ruffling his fur, and whisper in his ear, “You’re beautiful, Jura. Inside and out. You deserve all the love in the world.”
Jura had many physical defects. One of his front legs was slightly shorter than the other, giving him a noticeable limp. His ears were mismatched – one perked up alertly, while the other drooped endearingly. And his fur, a patchwork of browns and greys, was never quite as sleek or shiny as the other dogs he sometimes heard barking in the distance.
He trusted his mother implicitly. He knew she loved him unconditionally. But sometimes, a seed of doubt would sprout in his heart. He’d think about the other dogs, the ones he’d hear running and playing with effortless grace, the ones whose barks were met with excited coos and playful laughter.
He’d think, Mama says I’m beautiful, but…am I really? He’d feel the unevenness of his gait, the way his shorter leg sometimes tripped him up. He’d imagine the way he looked, the mismatched ears, the patchy fur, and a quiet sadness would settle over him.
He’d listen to the voices of people passing by, their tones often softening as they greeted other dogs. He’d hear the gentle pats, the loving words, the bright smiles. But when their attention turned to him, he’d often sense a hesitation, a slight pause before a hand reached out, or sometimes no hand at all.
He’d overhear snippets of conversations, hushed comments that drifted on the wind. “He’s…different,” someone might say. “It’s a shame about his leg.” Or, “He’s sweet, but…” The unspoken words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of his differences.
He’d think, Is it because of the way I look that they don’t stop? Is it because I’m not…normal? The questions echoed in his mind, a constant, nagging worry.
He’d nuzzle closer to his mother, seeking the warmth of her body, the comfort of her presence. She’d lick his face gently, her eyes, though he couldn’t see them, radiating love and reassurance.
She’d whisper again, “You are beautiful, Jura. Your differences make you special. They make you who you are. And you deserve to be loved, just as you are.”
He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe that his physical defects didn’t diminish his worth, that he was still deserving of love and acceptance. He longed to feel that love from others, not just from his mother. He longed to know that the whispers and hesitant glances weren’t a reflection of his worth, but simply a reflection of other people’s limited understanding of beauty. He held onto his mother’s words like a lifeline, hoping that one day, he’d truly believe them, not just with his heart, but with his whole being. He hoped that one day, others would see the beauty his mother saw, the beauty that lay within.
