Hobbes was a stray dog, a creature of the city streets. He had lived there for as long as he could remember, his days a blur of scavenging, sleeping in abandoned buildings, and dodging cars. Today was his birthday, a day that most dogs celebrated with treats, toys, and lots of love. But for Hobbes, it was just another day.
He wandered the streets, his tail drooping low. There was no one to wish him a happy birthday, no one to offer him a kind word. He had grown accustomed to the indifference of the world, but on his birthday, it felt especially harsh.
Hobbes stopped by a park where he often saw people playing with their dogs. He watched them with a pang of envy. Their dogs were showered with affection, their tails wagging with joy. Hobbes longed for the companionship he had never known.
As the day wore on, Hobbes’ spirits sank even lower. He found a quiet corner under a bridge and lay down, his head resting on his paws. He closed his eyes, wishing for a miracle, for someone to come along and rescue him from his lonely life. He also wished for someone to wish him a happy birthday, to let him know that he wasn’t alone.
Hobbes was a survivor, a dog who had learned to endure hardship. But on his birthday, even he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of sadness. As he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of a home, of a family who loved him. It was a dream that he knew was unlikely to ever come true, but it was a dream that kept him going, day after day.
