Today is my birthday.
At least, that is what the little picture beside me says.
There are bright candles, colorful balloons, and a cake I can only look at. They make the day seem happy, but I do not know if birthdays are supposed to feel this quiet.
I only know that one of my eyes no longer sees the world clearly. It aches sometimes. It makes people pause when they look at me. Some stare too long. Some look away too fast. I have learned both kinds of silence.
I try not to be afraid when someone comes near.
I sit still.
I keep my face lifted.
I hope they notice that I am more than the eye that was hurt.
Maybe I was once someone’s tiny puppy. Maybe someone once held me, laughed at my small paws, and promised I would never be alone. I do not remember everything clearly anymore. Pain has a way of swallowing the soft parts of memory.
But I still remember wanting to be loved.
Today, I do not ask for a big party.
I do not ask for gifts.
I do not even ask for a cake.
I only wish someone would stop for a moment, look into my one good eye, and say the words I have been waiting for:
“Happy birthday.”
Maybe that sounds small.
But for a dog who has known fear, pain, and empty days, a simple wish can feel like proof that I still matter.
So I am still sitting here.
Still looking at the world with the eye I have left.
Still hoping someone will see me.
If you can hear my little heart asking quietly through this picture, please don’t pass by without saying it.
Today is my birthday.
Will you wish me one?
