Coca didn’t know how old she was. Time, for a street dog, was a loose concept, marked by the changing seasons, the rise and fall of the sun, and the rhythm of hunger. But today felt different. A certain ache, a longing she couldn’t quite place, gnawed at her.
She’d spent the morning scavenging scraps, her wiry body alert to the rustle of a discarded food packet. The city was a harsh mistress, but she was a survivor, her spirit as tough as the concrete beneath her paws. But today, even the taste of stale bread was bittersweet.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows that made the city seem both grander and more menacing, Coca curled up in a sheltered doorway. She dreamt of warm fires, soft beds, and the gentle hands of a human. Dreams were a luxury, an escape from the cold reality of her life.
She was awakened by the distant sound of celebration. Laughter, music, and the tantalizing aroma of food drifted through the night. It was a world away from her existence, a world filled with joy and belonging. For a moment, her heart ached with a longing so deep it was almost physical.
As the party grew louder, Coca pulled herself closer to the wall. She was alone, forgotten, a shadow in the city’s bustling life. There would be no birthday cake, no presents, no cheerful songs. Just the cold, hard ground and the indifferent indifference of the night.
Yet, as she closed her eyes, a strange sense of peace washed over her. She had survived another day, another meal, another night. And in the grand scheme of things, perhaps survival was the greatest gift of all. With a sigh, she drifted back to sleep, her dreams filled not with parties and presents, but with the simple warmth of a full belly and a safe place to rest her weary head.
