I am a disabled dog; do you despise me? Many do. They see my twisted leg and the way I limp awkwardly, and their expressions change. Some look at me with pity, others with disgust, and a few don’t look at me at all. They avert their eyes as if my existence is something they would rather ignore.

It wasn’t always this way. I used to run fast and free, chasing butterflies under the warm sun and splashing in puddles after the rain. My legs carried me wherever I wanted to go, and life felt limitless. But one day, everything changed.

I don’t remember exactly how it happened—just the screech of tires and the sharp, blinding pain that followed. When I woke up, my leg was broken and mangled, and I was alone. The humans who hit me didn’t stop. They didn’t even glance back.

I lay on the roadside for what felt like days, unable to move, hunger gnawing at my belly and thirst parching my throat. Other dogs passed by, some sniffing curiously before moving on, while others growled and barked, warning me to stay away from their territory. I was no longer one of them; I was too weak to be part of their world.

Finally, a kind soul found me—a woman with gentle hands and kind eyes. She picked me up, whispering soft words I didn’t understand but that calmed my trembling body. She took me to a place full of unfamiliar smells and strange humans in white coats. They poked and prodded, murmuring things to each other as I lay there, too tired to protest.

They tried to save my leg, but it was too late. When I woke up, it was stiff and crooked, leaving me with a permanent limp. I heard one of them say, “This dog will never be the same again. He’s damaged.” Damaged. The word stuck to me like a shadow.

The kind woman couldn’t keep me. She had too many dogs of her own, she said, and I understood. She had already done so much for me, giving me a chance to heal when no one else would. She brought me to a shelter, hoping someone would see past my limp and give me a home.

But no one has. I’ve been here for months, watching as people come and go. They stop at the cages of other dogs, the ones with wagging tails and bright, eager eyes. They don’t stop at mine.

“Poor thing,” I once heard someone say as they glanced at me. “But who wants a disabled dog?”

Those words hurt more than the accident ever did. Do they think I don’t feel the same love, the same joy, as any other dog? Do they think I’m less deserving of a family because my leg isn’t straight?

I try my best to show them I’m still me. I wag my tail, even if it’s harder to stand on three good legs. I press my nose against the cage, hoping they’ll see that my heart is still whole, even if my body isn’t. But it’s never enough.

Some days, I wonder if I’ll ever find a home. Will someone ever look at me and see more than my limp? Will they see the dog who loves belly rubs, who dreams of running again even if it’s at a slower pace?

I don’t want pity. I don’t want someone to take me in because they feel sorry for me. I want someone to love me for who I am, not despite my disability but because they see that it doesn’t define me.

I may be a disabled dog, but my heart beats with the same hope, the same longing, as any other dog’s. I still dream of a family, of curling up at someone’s feet on a cold night or running in a field, even if I stumble.

So, I ask again: Do you despise me? Or could you be the one who sees the dog I truly am? All I want is a chance to prove that I’m more than what’s visible, that I’m worthy of love just like anyone else.