“My Papa Says I’m Beautiful… But Am I Really?”

I sit quietly by the window, watching the world go by, and sometimes I wonder—am I truly beautiful?
My papa tells me so every day. With his warm hands and soft voice, he says, “You are the most beautiful girl in the world.”
He looks at me with eyes full of love, not seeing what others might call flaws.
He doesn’t notice the fur that’s patchy in places, the scar above my eye, or the way I limp ever so slightly when I walk.
He doesn’t care that my ears aren’t even, that I’m not the kind of pup people line up to adopt, or that I came from a place where no one had ever said I mattered.
But still, every morning, as the light pours into our small kitchen, he scratches behind my ears and whispers it again—“Beautiful.”
And I want to believe him.
I want to believe that beauty isn’t about shiny fur or perfect legs, but about how deeply you love, how gently you live, and how bravely you heal.
I want to believe that the way I wait by the door until he returns home, or the way I curl around his feet when he’s tired—that those things count.
Because when he’s sad, I’m there. When he laughs, I wag my tail. And when he cries, I rest my head on his knee and just stay.
Isn’t that beautiful?
Still, there are moments I wonder… if someone else saw me, would they see what he sees?
Would they look past the crooked smile, the uneven gait, the weathered coat?
Would they see the soul underneath—full of love, loyalty, and a quiet hope that never left me, even when the world did?
My papa does.
He doesn’t say I’m beautiful like it’s a compliment. He says it like it’s a fact.
Like it’s always been true. Like it always will be.
And so today, as I rest my head on his lap and close my eyes, I try to believe him a little more.
Because maybe beauty isn’t something you see in the mirror. Maybe it’s something you feel—reflected in someone else’s love for you.
And maybe… just maybe… he’s right.
Maybe I am beautiful.
Not because I’m perfect, but because I’m his.