Gera’s world was a symphony of sounds and smells. He couldn’t see the brightly colored decorations that sometimes adorned the shelter, the excited faces of visitors, or the playful antics of the other dogs. His world was defined by the rustling of leaves outside his kennel, the distant rumble of traffic, the comforting scent of the shelter staff as they passed by.
He’d been at the shelter for a while now, long enough to learn the rhythm of its daily life: the clang of food bowls, the click of leashes, the varying pitches of barks and yelps. He knew his own small world intimately: the rough concrete of his kennel floor, the worn blanket that served as his bed, the location of his food and water bowls.
He’d often sit quietly, his head tilted slightly, as if listening to secrets the air carried. He’d hear the happy barks of other dogs being taken for walks, the excited chatter of children visiting with their families. He longed to join in the fun, to feel the joy of running and playing, but his blindness made it difficult.
He couldn’t see the ball being thrown, the other dogs chasing each other, the smiling faces of the people around him. But he could feel the warmth of the sun that streamed through the windows, the gentle breeze that sometimes drifted into his kennel, and the vibrations of footsteps approaching. Whenever someone stopped near his kennel, he’d greet them with a tentative wag of his tail, his nose twitching with anticipation.
He couldn’t see their expressions, but he could sense their hesitation, the slight pause before they moved on. He’d sometimes hear hushed whispers, words like “blind,” “poor thing,” or even, “I don’t know how to handle a blind dog.”
He didn’t understand the pity in their voices. He was happy. He was content. He just wanted to connect, to feel the touch of a friendly hand, to hear a kind voice speak his name.
Today felt different. There was a subtle shift in the atmosphere, a buzz of excitement that hadn’t been there before. He could smell the distinct aroma of treats, and he’d overheard snippets of conversations about “birthdays” and “celebrations.” He didn’t understand the human concept of birthdays, but he sensed it was a special day, a day for joy and attention.
He curled up in his bed, his head resting on his paws, a quiet sigh escaping his lips. He thought, Today feels different…maybe it’s my birthday. But…not everyone likes blind dogs, right?
The thought brought a wave of sadness over him. He knew that some people were uncomfortable around blind dogs. They didn’t know how to approach him, how to interact with him. They seemed to think he was somehow fragile, or broken.
He thought, Is it because I’m blind that no one remembers? Is it because I can’t see the decorations or the smiles? Is that why no one has come to see me? The questions echoed in his mind, a quiet, heartbreaking refrain. He longed for a simple acknowledgment, a kind word, a gentle touch. He longed for someone to see past his blindness and recognize the loving companion he truly was. He longed for someone to understand that even though he experienced the world differently, his heart beat with the same unwavering love as any other dog. He just wanted to be seen, to be accepted, to be loved, even just a little, especially on his birthday. He just wanted to know that he wasn’t being overlooked because he was “just a blind dog.”
