The first time I saw him, he stumbled—his legs didn’t move quite right. His steps were wobbly, uncertain, as if the earth beneath him kept shifting. I remember the vet’s words echoing: “He has a neurological condition. He may never walk normally.”

I also remember looking into his eyes—bright, wide, full of curiosity—and realizing in that moment: he didn’t care.

This is Juno.

He was born with a neurological disorder that affects his coordination. Every step he takes is harder than it should be. He sometimes tips over when he tries to chase a leaf. His back legs don’t always cooperate. But here’s the thing: he doesn’t know he’s different.

He doesn’t know the label the world tries to put on him.

What he does know is that the sun feels warm on his fur. He knows that tennis balls are meant to be chased, even if he falls halfway there. He knows that when he sits proudly in the yard, tongue flopping, tail wagging wildly, someone always says, “Good boy, Juno!”—and that’s enough for him.

People often say animals don’t know their limitations. I think it’s because they don’t look for them. They look for moments. For connection. For joy. For love.

And Juno? He’s found all of that.

He may never walk like other dogs, but he lives with a courage and happiness that most of us could only wish to emulate. He doesn’t pity himself. He doesn’t ask why. He just wakes up every day and tries again—with a smile on his face and a heart full of fire.

He is not broken.
He is not less.
He is, in every way that matters, whole.

And to anyone who ever said he’d be limited—just look at him now. Sitting proud, alert, and oh so loved.