Oliver didn’t know how old he was. Birthdays were for puppies with warm homes, soft beds, and people who scratched behind their ears. He was a street dog, a creature of survival, his world defined by concrete and the indifferent gaze of passersby. Today, though, felt different. A flicker of hope ignited within him, a tiny spark in the darkness of his existence. It was his birthday, or so he imagined.
He spent his days searching for scraps, his nights huddled in abandoned boxes. His ribs were visible through his matted fur, a stark reminder of his struggle. He dreamed of a home, a place where he wouldn’t have to fight for survival. A place where he would be loved and protected.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows, Oliver found a quiet spot beneath an overpass. He curled up, his body trembling from the cold. In his mind, he was back in a warm kitchen, a tiny puppy being cradled in loving arms. He could almost smell the familiar scent of his mother, a comforting aroma that filled him with longing.
His birthday wish was simple: to see his family again. To feel the warmth of their love, to hear their laughter. He didn’t know if they were still looking for him, but hope, like a stubborn weed, refused to die. As he drifted off to sleep, he held onto this dream, a beacon in the darkness of his lonely existence.
Tomorrow was another day, and with it, another chance. Until then, he would survive, his spirit unbroken. He was Oliver, a street dog with a heart full of hope, waiting for the day his family would come home.
