Cona didn’t know his exact age, but he guessed it was around five. Five years of hunger, cold, and the relentless pursuit of survival. He was a street dog, a creature of instinct and resilience. Today, his supposed fifth birthday, was no different from any other. The city was a harsh mistress, offering little in the way of compassion.
He remembered a time when there was warmth, when food was plentiful. But those memories were fading, replaced by the stark realities of street life. Now, he was a scavenger, his dignity sacrificed for survival. His birthday, if it was indeed a birthday, was marked by the emptiness of his belly and the loneliness of his existence.
The day passed in a blur of hunger and despair. People hurried past, their lives a world away. He was invisible, a shadow in their bustling existence. He longed for a touch of kindness, a warm meal, a safe place to sleep. But the city was a concrete jungle, offering little in the way of compassion.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, mournful shadows, Cona found a sheltered spot beneath a discarded cardboard box. The city’s cacophony faded, replaced by the quietude of the night. He curled up, his body trembling from cold and hunger. There were no birthday wishes, no presents, no warm embrace. Just the harsh reality of his existence.
As sleep claimed him, he dreamed of a home, a soft bed, and the love of a human. But when he woke, the cold, unforgiving world would be waiting. His fifth birthday, a milestone for many, was for him a stark reminder of the life he’d been dealt, a life of solitude and survival.
