Pula had never given much thought to his appearance. He knew he was different. His snout was slightly crooked, his ears mismatched, one perked jauntily while the other drooped with a gentle curve. But these were just features, parts of him, like the soft fur on his belly or the way his tail thumped against the floor when he was happy.
He spent his days exploring the world with boundless enthusiasm, sniffing out interesting smells in the grass, chasing butterflies with clumsy delight, and greeting every human interaction with a hopeful wag of his tail. He didn’t see himself as anything other than Pula, a dog full of love and joy.
Then, he started venturing further from his usual haunts, exploring the bustling streets and crowded parks. It was there, among the throngs of people and their perfectly coiffed canine companions, that he first encountered the weight of other people’s perceptions.
He’d approach people with his usual friendly wiggle, his tail wagging excitedly, only to be met with quick glances, averted eyes, and sometimes even a slight frown. He’d hear the whispers, hushed comments that stung like tiny thorns. “Look at his face,” they’d say, their voices tinged with pity or sometimes even disgust. “Poor thing,” or worse, “He’s so…ugly.”
At first, he was confused. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong. He’d simply wanted to say hello, to share a moment of connection, to offer a friendly lick or a gentle nudge. But the constant rejection, the averted gazes, the whispered comments, began to take their toll.
He started to notice his reflection in shop windows, in puddles on the sidewalk. He’d never paid much attention to his appearance before, but now, he scrutinized his face, searching for the flaw that made people recoil. He saw the crooked snout, the mismatched ears, and a deep sadness settled in his heart.
He’d still try to approach people, his tail wagging hesitantly, but the joy had faded, replaced by a deep insecurity. He’d anticipate the quick glances, the averted eyes, the whispered comments. He’d flinch at the slightest sign of disapproval, his tail tucking between his legs.
He’d often retreat to a quiet corner, beneath a tree or in a sheltered doorway, his head resting on his paws, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He’d think, Is it true? Am I really that ugly? Is that why no one wants to be my friend?
He’d watch other dogs interact with their owners, the loving gazes, the gentle touches, the cheerful words. He longed for that same connection, that same feeling of belonging. He just wanted to be accepted, to be loved, to be seen for the gentle, loving soul he truly was. He had never considered his face a problem until the world told him it was. And that realization, that weight of judgment, was truly heartbreaking.
