The small, concrete kennel felt colder than usual. Geka, a scruffy terrier mix with mismatched ears and a slightly crooked tail, lay curled up on his thin blanket. The usual cacophony of the shelter – the barking, the yelping, the distant clang of food bowls – seemed muted today, as if even the air itself was holding its breath. Today was Geka’s birthday, a fact marked only by a small, faded crayon drawing of a bone taped to his kennel door by a volunteer who’d long since gone home.
He didn’t understand the human concept of birthdays – the cakes, the presents, the cheerful songs. But he understood attention. He understood kindness. He understood the warm feeling of a gentle hand stroking his fur, the sound of a kind voice speaking his name. And today, that attention was conspicuously absent.
He’d watched, with his one good eye (the other was cloudy and partially blind), as other dogs were taken for walks, their tails wagging excitedly as they left the kennel. He’d heard the joyful barks of dogs playing in the outdoor run, the happy chatter of visitors admiring the puppies. But no one had stopped at his kennel. No one had offered a scratch behind the ears or a kind word.
He’d seen this before. He’d been at the shelter for a while now, long enough to see countless other dogs come and go. Puppies were usually adopted quickly, their playful antics drawing in eager families. Younger, more conventionally “cute” dogs were often chosen for their potential for adventure. But Geka, with his scruffy fur, mismatched ears, and slightly crooked tail, was often overlooked.
He’d overheard snippets of conversations too. “He’s…different,” someone might whisper, their voice tinged with a mixture of pity and hesitation. Or, “He’s sweet, but we’re looking for something a little…prettier.” He didn’t understand the human concepts of “different” or “prettier,” but he could feel the weight of their judgment. He could sense the subtle recoil, the averted gaze.
He touched his nose to the cold metal bars of his kennel, sniffing the air for any sign of change. He could smell the familiar scent of dog treats from the kitchen, but no one stopped at his door. He heard the joyful barks of other dogs being taken for walks, but no leash clipped onto his collar.
He thought, Today…today is supposed to be special. But no one has come. No one has even looked at me. A heavy sadness settled over him, a familiar weight in his chest. He didn’t need a party or presents. He just wanted a little recognition, a little kindness, a little love.
He thought, It’s my birthday…I just wish someone would remember. I just wish someone would send me a good wish. He didn’t need a grand celebration. He just wanted to know that he wasn’t entirely forgotten, that even a dog with mismatched ears and a crooked tail was worthy of a kind thought, a silent wish for happiness on his special day. He just wanted to feel seen, to feel acknowledged, to feel loved, even just for a moment. He wondered, with a deep ache in his heart, if it was because he was “ugly” that no one had wished him a happy birthday. The thought was a cold, hard knot in his stomach.
