Oreo didn’t know his age, let alone the concept of a birthday. Time for him was marked by hunger, cold, and the endless search for survival. He was a street dog, his world a harsh, unforgiving concrete jungle. Today, however, felt different. A strange emptiness gnawed at him, a longing he couldn’t quite place.
He was a beautiful dog, his black and white fur contrasting sharply against the urban grime. People often stopped to admire him, their eyes softening with pity. But these moments of attention were fleeting, replaced by the indifference of everyday life.
As the day wore on, Oreo wandered the streets, his gaze fixed on the ground, searching for discarded scraps. He remembered a time, a distant memory, of warmth and comfort. But those images were fading, replaced by the harsh realities of street life.
As the sun began its descent, casting long, mournful shadows, Oreo found a sheltered spot beneath a discarded cardboard box. The city’s cacophony faded, replaced by the quietude of the night. He curled up, his body trembling from cold and hunger. There were no birthday wishes, no presents, no warm embrace. Just the harsh reality of his existence.
He thought about other dogs, those lucky few with homes and families. They probably had cake and toys and plenty of love. A pang of loneliness washed over him. He was a dog, after all, deserving of happiness and affection. But for now, he was just Oreo, a street dog on his birthday, a creature of survival in a world that offered little in the way of compassion.
