Happy didn’t know what a birthday was. The world was a mosaic of sounds and scents, a constant negotiation with the unseen. One of his eyes, a vibrant blue, was a vacant canvas, offering no visual information. He was a puppy, born into a world of shadows, his life a silent film without color.
Today was a day like any other, except perhaps for a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of change that Happy couldn’t comprehend. It was his first birthday, a milestone unmarked by celebration or gift. For Happy, birthdays were as abstract as colors.
He lived in a cardboard box, his sanctuary against the indifferent world. His days were a repetitive cycle of hunger, thirst, and the constant vigilance required to evade harm. The city was a cacophony of sounds, a whirlwind of activity that overwhelmed his senses. He missed the comforting presence of a warm body, the gentle touch of a loving hand.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows that he couldn’t fully perceive, Happy curled into a ball. The city lights were a distant, cold beauty, offering no warmth or comfort. He was a tiny creature, alone in a vast, indifferent world. In the darkness, he dreamt of a world filled with colors, of a gentle hand petting his fur, of a warm home to call his own. But when he woke, reality was a harsh slap in the face.
His birthday passed without notice, a silent marker in the relentless march of time. Happy was just a puppy, a survivor in a world that cared little for its smallest inhabitants. Yet, in the depths of his small heart, there was a flicker of hope, a tiny flame that refused to be extinguished.
