I’m just a dog, and like every other dog, I crave love, attention, and companionship. But there’s something about me that makes people look at me differently—something that makes them turn away. I don’t blame them, though. I know I’m not like other dogs. My eyes don’t work like they used to, and sometimes, when I wander around in circles trying to find my way, I hear whispers. They call me a “blind dog,” and I can sense the distance that grows between me and others.

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I could run through the fields, chasing after squirrels and rolling in the grass. I could look up to the sky and catch the sight of the sun shining brightly above. But those days are gone now. The world is a blur, and my once-sharp instincts are now clouded by darkness. I can no longer see the people who pass by, but I can hear their footsteps and feel their hesitation when they come too close.

At first, I didn’t understand what was happening. Why did they look at me with pity in their eyes? Why didn’t they stop to play or pet me like they did with the other dogs? It wasn’t until I overheard some children talking that I realized they were calling me “the blind dog.” It hurt. I didn’t want to be known for what I lacked. But the truth is, it’s hard to ignore when it’s all that people can see.

Still, I wonder—do they distance themselves from me because I’m different, or do they simply not understand what it’s like to be me? I may be blind, but I’m not broken. I still have a heart that beats just like anyone else’s. I still feel joy when someone shows me kindness, and I still long for companionship. But every day, as I sit by the corner of the street, I wonder: *Do you distance yourself from me because I’m blind?* Does my disability make me less worthy of love?

I can hear the voices of the kind ones—those who speak softly to me, even when I can’t see them. They call me sweet names, rub my head gently, and offer me scraps of food. But those voices are few and far between. Most people just pass by, their footsteps quickening as they approach, then slowing down just long enough to glance in my direction. And in their eyes, I see a question: *Should we help this poor blind dog, or should we just keep walking?*

I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be seen as an object of pity. All I want is to feel that I matter. To be recognized not for my blindness, but for my ability to love, to be loyal, and to share moments of warmth. I may not see the world the way others do, but I experience it in my own way. I hear the laughter of children, I feel the warmth of the sun, and I still chase after the wind when it brushes against my fur.

So, please—before you walk past me, take a moment to think. Do you distance yourself from me because I’m blind, or are you just too busy to stop and share a moment of kindness? You may not be able to see my eyes, but I can still see the world through my heart. And if you choose to look at me with compassion, you’ll see a dog who longs to love and be loved, just like any other.