Buddy didn’t know how old he was. Birthdays were for dogs with 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, Buddy found a quiet spot beneath an overpass. He curled up, his body trembling from the cold. In his mind, he was a puppy again, playing with his siblings, chasing butterflies in a sun-drenched garden. But reality was harsh. He was a street dog, alone and afraid.
His birthday wish was simple: a home. A place to belong. He closed his eyes, letting his imagination transport him to a world filled with warmth and love. When he opened them, the cold reality hit him with renewed force. But the dream, the hope, kept him going. Tomorrow was another day, and with it, a new chance.
Until then, he would endure, his spirit unbroken. He was Buddy, a street dog with a heart full of hope, waiting for the day his luck would change.
