Bin is a dog who has lived in the shelter for 11 years. Eleven years had etched lines of weariness into his face, dulled the spark in his eyes. He remembered a time when his tail was a constant propeller, his bark a joyful symphony. But those days were a distant memory, buried beneath layers of despair.
Today, the shelter was busier than usual, filled with the usual cacophony of barks and whines. It was his birthday, he thought. A silly notion, perhaps, but hope, a tiny ember in the ashes of his spirit, flickered to life. People came and went, their eyes scanning the rows of kennels. Some stopped to coo and scratch, but none stayed long enough.
As the day wore on, the noise subsided. The shelter fell into a quietude broken only by the soft padding of paws and the occasional sigh. Bin curled up in his kennel, his body a shadow of its former self. He thought of the countless birthdays he’d spent in this place, each one a silent marker of time passing.
He had learned to hope, and then to accept the inevitable. There would be no cake, no presents, no loving pats. Just the familiar scent of disinfectant and the cold, hard reality of his existence. As he drifted off to sleep, he dreamed of a home, a place where he belonged. But when he woke, the harsh reality of the shelter would be waiting, and the cycle would begin anew.
