The old dog cried, trembling in the corner of the dim, drafty shelter. His graying muzzle rested on his paws, ears drooped low, body thin from too many days of waiting. His name was Rufus, though no one had said it aloud in a long time. Every time footsteps echoed down the hallway, his heart lifted—just for a moment—before sinking again when the steps passed him by.
He had once been someone’s dog. He remembered warm beds, belly rubs, the sound of laughter in a home that smelled like cinnamon and old wood. But somewhere along the way, things changed. He grew slower, harder of hearing. The games stopped. The walks grew short. Then one day, a car ride ended not in a park, but in a parking lot behind the shelter. His person hadn’t even looked back.
Now, Rufus spent his days tucked into the farthest corner of his kennel, his once bright eyes clouded not just with age, but with heartbreak. The younger dogs barked and jumped, eager for attention, tails wagging with hope. But Rufus had grown quiet. He no longer expected affection. Still, deep in his tired heart, a small wish flickered—a longing that his person might remember him, might miss him, might love him… just once.
Each night, he would press his nose to the cold floor and dream. In his dreams, he was young again, bounding through tall grass, his owner’s voice calling his name with joy. In those moments, the ache in his bones faded, and the loneliness melted away.
But when morning came, he was just an old dog again, trembling in the corner, waiting for a love he feared would never return.
