I remember the day it happened, as if it were yesterday. The world was moving fast, too fast for my legs to keep up. One moment, I was running freely, chasing after a butterfly that fluttered just out of my reach. The next moment, there was a sharp pain, a horrible crack, and then… darkness.

When I woke up, everything felt wrong. The world seemed smaller, and my body felt strange. I tried to get up, to walk, but my back legs wouldn’t move. Panic surged through me, and I barked for help, but there was no one. I dragged myself forward, feeling the weight of my own body, but it was no use. I was stuck. My once-strong legs, the legs that carried me on countless adventures, were no longer working.

It was hard to understand at first. I didn’t know what had happened to me, only that everything was different. My human, my wonderful owner, came to me with tears in her eyes. She whispered soothing words, but I could sense the pain in her voice. She had always been my protector, my best friend. She carried me to the vet, where the diagnosis came: my two hind legs were paralyzed, and I would never walk again.

At first, I didn’t know how to feel. I was scared. How could I live like this? How could I play? Run? Do all the things I loved to do? I saw the sadness in my human’s eyes, and I felt helpless. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her it would be okay, but I didn’t know how. I was the one who needed comforting now. I couldn’t understand why this had happened to me.

But then, something amazing happened. My human didn’t give up on me. She didn’t let my disability define who I was or limit what I could do. After countless visits to the vet and a lot of research, she found something that could help me—a wheelchair. It was strange at first, awkward and unfamiliar. The wheels spun under me, and I wobbled as I tried to move. But slowly, I got the hang of it.

At first, it was hard to adjust. I was embarrassed, unsure of what others would think when they saw me in my new wheelchair. I felt like I was different, like I didn’t belong. I wondered, “Am I still the dog I used to be? Or have I become something less?” The thought crossed my mind that maybe others would look down on me, see me as broken or incomplete.

But every time I looked up at my human, I saw nothing but love. She never once treated me differently. She didn’t pity me; she just kept loving me. She cheered me on when I took my first few wobbly steps in the wheelchair, and she laughed with me when I rolled too fast and bumped into the wall. I felt her joy, her pride in me, and it made me feel stronger. Slowly, I began to believe that maybe I wasn’t broken after all.

As I learned to move again, I rediscovered the world around me. I could still chase after balls, albeit more slowly. I could still explore the yard, feel the warm sun on my face and the cool breeze in my fur. I could still be a dog. I could still be happy. And I could still love and be loved in return.

But there are times when doubts creep in. When I see other dogs running, their legs working like they’re meant to, I sometimes wonder if they look at me and see me as less. I wonder if people look at me and feel pity or shame for me. But then I remember the love in my human’s eyes, the way she smiles when I wag my tail, and I know that no matter what anyone else thinks, I am enough.

So, when I say, “I am a disabled dog, do you look down on me?” I don’t say it out of anger. I say it out of the vulnerability I feel in my heart. But I also say it as a reminder that my worth is not defined by my disability. I am still the same dog that chased after butterflies, that curled up in your lap, that loved you with all my heart. I may have two paralyzed legs, but I still have the spirit of a dog who loves life, who loves his human, and who will never stop trying to be the best dog I can be.

And when I look up at my human, I see nothing but love and acceptance. I see that I am not defined by what I’ve lost, but by what I still have—my heart, my spirit, and the bond we share. I am a dog. I may be different now, but I am still the same dog, still worthy of love and happiness.

So, no. I don’t think anyone looks down on me. Not when they see the joy in my eyes, the tail wagging with excitement, the love that fills every inch of my being. I may not be able to walk the same way I once did, but I am still here. And that’s enough.