Gom’s world was a symphony of sounds and smells. He couldn’t see the vibrant colors of the flowers blooming in the shelter garden, or the smiling faces of the volunteers who cared for him. His world was defined by the rustling of leaves in the wind, the distant rumble of traffic, the comforting scent of his worn blanket. He’d been blind since birth, and while he didn’t know any different, he sensed a subtle difference in how people interacted with him.
He’d listen intently as visitors walked through the kennels. He’d hear the excited barks of other dogs, the playful yips of puppies, the cooing voices of potential adopters. He’d perk his ears, hoping someone would stop at his kennel, offer a gentle touch, a kind word.
Sometimes, they did. A hand would reach through the bars, stroking his soft fur, and a voice would say, “Oh, you poor thing.” He didn’t understand the “poor thing” part. He didn’t feel poor. His world was full, just different.
But more often than not, the footsteps would pass by his kennel, moving on to the next, to the next, to dogs with bright, seeing eyes that could meet their gaze. He’d hear hushed whispers. “He’s blind,” someone would say, their voice tinged with pity or hesitation. “It must be difficult.”
He didn’t understand the hesitation. He knew he could navigate his surroundings with remarkable confidence, relying on his other senses to guide him. He knew the layout of his kennel, the location of his food and water bowls, the path to the small outdoor run. He could even recognize the distinct scents of the different volunteers, knowing who was approaching before they even reached his kennel.
He’d think, They think it’s difficult. They think I’m too much trouble. He’d tilt his head slightly, his ears twitching as he listened to the fading footsteps. He’d feel a pang of sadness, a quiet ache in his heart.
He longed for the same kind of interaction he heard the other dogs receiving: the playful banter, the excited exclamations, the feeling of being chosen. He longed to feel the warmth of a loving home, the comfort of a soft bed, the joy of a family to call his own.
He’d often curl up in his bed, his head resting on his paws, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He’d think about his blindness, about the way it seemed to create a barrier between him and the people who visited the shelter.
He’d think, Is it too much to ask? Is it too difficult to love a dog who can’t see? The question echoed in his mind, a constant, nagging worry.
But deep down, a small spark of hope still flickered within him. He knew he had a big heart, a playful spirit, and an unwavering capacity for love. He might not see the world with his eyes, but he felt it deeply, with all his other senses.
He’d think, I might be blind, but I’m still a good dog. I still have so much love to give. He believed, with unwavering conviction, that dogs also deserve to be loved, regardless of their limitations. He just hoped that someone, someday, would see past his blindness and recognize the loving companion he truly was. He hoped someone would understand that a blind dog could still bring just as much joy, just as much love, into a home as any other dog.
