“Because I’m Just a Stray Dog…”

Nobody loves me… because I’m just a stray dog.

That’s what they see when they pass by: matted fur, tired eyes, ribs visible under my skin. They wrinkle their noses, cross the street, or hurry away as if I might bite or beg. They don’t see the life I had before this. They don’t know I once had a name—or that I still wait for someone to call it.

They don’t see the quiet days I’ve spent lying in alleyways and behind fences, listening to the sounds of homes that aren’t mine. The dinners I’ve watched from behind trash cans. The cold nights I’ve curled up with only hope to keep me warm.

What they don’t notice are my eyes. Not just their color—but their story. I’ve seen kindness. I’ve seen betrayal. I’ve seen people walk away when all I did was wag my tail.

They don’t see how I lower my head, not out of aggression—but submission. I’m not fierce—I’m forgotten. Not dangerous—just discarded.

Still… I dream.

I dream of a warm corner in a small room where someone might lay a blanket just for me. I dream of a bowl with my name on it—even if I don’t remember what my name was. I dream of hearing a voice say, “You’re safe now.” I dream of hands that reach for me not to chase me away, but to pull me closer.

I don’t want much. Just a touch that’s gentle. A place to rest without fear. A person who sees past the dirt and scars, and recognizes the soul that’s still beating underneath.

Because despite everything… I still love.

I still wag my tail when I see kindness. I still follow softly, from a distance, hoping someone might turn around. I still believe that maybe—not today, maybe not tomorrow—but one day… someone will stop. Someone will kneel. Someone will say, “Come here, buddy.”

And I will. I will come. Slowly, maybe. Nervously. But I will.

Because I’ve been waiting. Not just for food or shelter—but for someone who doesn’t see “just a stray dog.”

Someone who sees me.

So if you’re reading this… maybe that someone could be you.