June is a very poor dog. Eight years he had resided in the shelter, a lifetime measured in the ticking of the clock on the wall and the relentless cycle of days. Today, his eighth birthday, was a bitter irony. It marked not only the anniversary of his adoption but also the day he had been cruelly abandoned.
He remembered the day vividly. The car ride, once a source of excitement, had turned into a nightmare. The familiar scents of home had been replaced by the strange smell of the shelter. He had been placed in a kennel, a small, confined space that felt like a prison.
The days had turned into weeks, then months. June had watched as other dogs were adopted, their tails wagging with joy as they left the shelter. But no one had ever chosen him. He was too old, they said. Too big. Too much trouble.
Today, as the day wore on, a sense of profound loneliness settled over him. He curled up in his kennel, his whimpers muffled by the thick padding of his bed. He thought of the happy times, the warmth of his old home, the children’s laughter. But the images were replaced by the cold, hard reality of his current existence.
He missed his family, their love, their companionship. He missed being a part of something. And most of all, he missed feeling wanted. As the day drew to a close, June drifted off to sleep, his heart heavy with sadness. His birthday, a day that should have been filled with joy and celebration, had become a day of loss and abandonment.
