Rum’s world was a blend of scents and sounds, a world he navigated with a quiet grace. He couldn’t see the expressions on people’s faces, but he could hear the subtle shifts in their voices, feel the hesitant touch of their hands. His own face, he knew, was different. A birth defect had left his snout slightly crooked, one eye a little smaller than the other, and his jaw slightly misaligned. He’d never seen his reflection, but he’d felt the weight of other people’s gazes.
He lived on the fringes of a small park, a familiar figure to the regulars, though few ever stopped to interact with him. He’d watch, or rather listen, as they passed by, their voices often softening as they greeted other dogs, dogs with sleek coats and symmetrical features. He’d hear the playful barks, the joyful laughter, the gentle coos. Then, their attention would turn to him, and the tone would often change. A flicker of pity, a slight frown, or sometimes just a quickened pace would mark their passing.
He’d overhear snippets of conversations, hushed comments that drifted on the breeze. “Poor thing,” they’d say, their voices tinged with a mixture of sympathy and discomfort. “It’s a shame about his face.” Or, “He’s sweet, but…” The unspoken words hung in the air, a subtle reminder of his difference.
Rum didn’t understand the human concept of “beauty.” He understood kindness, the gentle touch of a hand on his fur, the sound of a soothing voice. He understood the joy of a good belly rub, the excitement of a walk in the park (even if he couldn’t see where he was going), the comfort of a warm spot in the sun.
He’d often find a quiet spot under a willow tree by the river, his head resting on his paws, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He’d think about the whispers, the averted eyes, the subtle signs of rejection. He couldn’t see himself as others did, but he could feel the weight of their perceptions.
He’d think, Is it my face? Is it my appearance that is keeping you away from me? Is that why you don’t stop to say hello, to offer a kind word, a gentle touch? The questions echoed in his mind, a constant, nagging worry.
He longed for the same kind of interactions he saw other dogs enjoying: the playful pats, the loving words, the bright smiles. He longed to feel accepted, to feel like he belonged. He didn’t understand why his appearance mattered so much. He was still the same dog inside, full of love and loyalty.
He couldn’t change his face. He hadn’t chosen to be born with a crooked snout and mismatched eyes. But he hoped, with a quiet desperation, that one day, someone would see past his outward appearance and recognize the gentle soul that resided within. He hoped that someone would understand that true beauty wasn’t about outward appearances, but about the kindness and love that shone from within. He just wanted to be accepted, just as he was, quirks and all. He just wanted to know that he wasn’t being avoided simply because of his deformed face.
