Verpa remembered warmth. The warmth of a soft blanket, the warmth of a hand stroking his fur, the warmth of belonging. He remembered a house filled with familiar scents – the comforting aroma of cooking food, the slightly musty smell of his favorite chew toy, the clean, soapy scent of his human. He remembered a voice that called him by name, a voice that was always gentle, always kind. He remembered a family.
He’d been a happy puppy then, full of boundless energy and playful nips. He’d chase his tail in circles, pounce on imaginary foes, and greet every human interaction with enthusiastic wags and sloppy kisses. He’d been loved. He was certain of it.
But then, something changed. He didn’t understand what. He’d always been a little different. His left ear drooped more than his right, and his snout had a slight twist, giving him a perpetually surprised expression. It had never seemed to matter before.
Then, the whispers started. He’d overheard his humans talking, their voices low and hushed. He’d heard words like “deformed,” “unfortunate,” and “not right.” He didn’t understand what they meant, but he could sense the change in their tone, the shift from warmth to something cold and distant.
One day, the car ride was different. It wasn’t a trip to the park, or a visit to the vet. It was a one-way trip to a place he didn’t recognize, a desolate stretch of road on the outskirts of town. He remembered the sinking feeling in his stomach as the car sped away, leaving him alone in the unfamiliar surroundings.
He tried to follow, his paws scrambling on the rough asphalt, his heart pounding with fear and confusion. But the car disappeared, leaving him stranded in the cold, harsh reality of abandonment.
Now, he was just another stray, a homeless dog, struggling to survive on the streets. The warmth he remembered was replaced by the biting wind, the soft blanket by cold concrete, the loving hand by the hurried footsteps of strangers who averted their gaze.
He’d often find a quiet corner, beneath a parked car or in a sheltered doorway, and curl up into a tight ball, shivering in the cold. He’d think about the family he’d lost, the warmth he’d known, and a deep sadness would settle in his heart.
He’d touch his nose to the cold concrete, tracing the familiar scent of the streets, a scent that had become his only constant. He’d look up at the passing feet, hoping for a flicker of recognition, a sign of kindness. But most people simply walked by, their faces etched with indifference.
He knew he was different. He knew he was “deformed,” as he’d overheard them say. He knew that was why he’d been abandoned, why he was now a homeless dog, struggling to survive on his own. The memory of the warmth he’d once known, the love he’d once felt, was now a constant ache, a painful reminder of what he had lost, simply because he wasn’t considered “perfect.”
