Today is my birthday.
The shelter workers told me so this morning. They placed a few colorful toys inside my kennel, gave me a special treat, and called me their “birthday girl.”
I stood against the metal gate and smiled as widely as I could.
People often think dogs smile because they are happy.
Sometimes we smile because we are trying to be brave.
I have watched many visitors walk through this hallway. Whenever footsteps come closer, I rise on my back legs and press my paws against the bars. My tail begins to move before I can stop it.
Perhaps this person has come for me.
Perhaps today is the day someone looks into my eyes and decides that I belong beside them.
But most people only pause for a moment.
They smile at me.
They say I am sweet.
Then they continue toward another kennel.
When their footsteps disappear, I slowly lower myself back to the floor. The toys are still there, but the room suddenly feels quiet again.
I do not blame anyone.
There are many dogs here, and all of us are waiting for the same thing: a voice that calls our name with love, a car ride that does not end at another cage, and a door that opens into a home.
Today, I tried even harder to look cheerful.
I kept my ears lifted.
I wagged whenever anyone passed.
I did not want my birthday to end with no one noticing me.
I do not need a large cake or a room filled with decorations. I would trade every present for one warm bed, one hand resting gently on my head, and one person promising to return tomorrow.
The shelter lights will soon turn off.
My birthday toys will remain scattered on the floor, and I will curl up alone beneath the same gray walls.
Still, I will listen whenever footsteps enter the hallway.
I will stand up again.
I will smile again.
Because perhaps the next person will stop.
Perhaps they will see that the dog behind these bars has been waiting with her whole heart.
And perhaps, before this birthday is over, someone will finally whisper:
“I choose you.”
