I am a homeless dog, wandering through streets and alleys, hoping one day someone might truly see me, not as just another stray, but as a soul deserving of love. I often wonder if others can understand what it’s like to be alone in this vast world. Do you all have a place to call home? Because I don’t. My “home” is wherever I can find a bit of shelter from the rain, wherever I can curl up away from the biting wind. I’ve tried to make friends with other dogs, watching them walk joyfully alongside their humans. They seem so loved, so sure of where they belong, and for a moment, I imagine what it would feel like to have that kind of life.

When the sun sets and darkness blankets the streets, it becomes even lonelier. I find a corner to sleep in, but it’s never truly safe. Strange sounds echo through the night, making me wake with a start. Some nights, I dream of being in a warm, cozy home, of feeling gentle hands petting me, of hearing a kind voice whispering that I’m safe, that I’m loved. But then I wake up, and the reality of my life settles heavily upon me.

Each day, I search for food, hoping someone might spare a bite, a crumb, anything to fill my aching stomach. Occasionally, a passerby will toss me some scraps, or a kind person will pause to offer a comforting word or a quick pat. In those fleeting moments, I feel noticed. But the feeling fades quickly, and soon, I’m just another stray dog, moving from one lonely street to the next, hoping that maybe, somewhere, someone might see past the dirt on my coat and the sadness in my eyes.

As I watch people pass by with their loved pets, I wonder if they know how lucky they are. They walk with purpose, secure in their places in the world, knowing they are wanted, loved, and protected. For them, love and companionship are just a part of life. For me, these things are dreams, distant and unattainable.

Sometimes I find shelter in a cardboard box, or under an old bench, where I can shield myself from the rain. But on cold nights, I feel the chill down to my bones, and it’s hard not to feel forgotten by the world. I wonder if anyone would care if I disappeared, if anyone would even notice. I wonder if I will ever experience the warmth of a real home, where I’m no longer just a stray but part of a family.

So I ask, “Do you all have a home? As for me, I don’t.” And as much as it hurts to say, I still hold onto the hope that somewhere out there, there’s someone who will look past my scruffy coat and weary eyes, who will see me as I truly am—a heart waiting to give love, just needing someone to love me in return. Until then, I will keep wandering, one pawstep at a time, holding onto that small hope that maybe, just maybe, there’s a place for me too.