Milo was a quiet dog. He was used to being overlooked, his presence a mere footnote in the bustling lives of his human family. He’d learned to find comfort in the rhythm of the house, the familiar creaks of the floorboards, the soft hum of the refrigerator. Today, though, felt different. An inexplicable hope had stirred within him. It was his birthday, he was certain. He could feel it in the way the sunlight seemed to dance with a particular warmth.
As the day wore on, however, his hope dwindled. There were no excited greetings, no special treats, no belly rubs. The family moved about their day, their lives a river flowing indifferent to the small creature at its edge. Milo watched them with a growing sense of confusion. Had he done something wrong? Was he no longer worthy of their love?
Doubt crept into his heart. He was just a dog, after all. A creature of instinct and loyalty. What value did he hold in the grand scheme of things? He retreated to his usual spot, a soft cushion by the window. From there, he could watch the world outside, a world that seemed so full of life, yet so distant.
As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror his own loneliness, Milo let out a soft whimper. It was a sound born of disappointment and confusion. Was he merely a piece of furniture, a silent observer of their lives? In the quiet of the evening, as the house settled into sleep, he looked out at the night sky. The stars twinkled, indifferent to his sorrow. And in that moment, under the vast expanse of the universe, Milo felt smaller than ever.
