A Letter from a Senior Shelter Dog

It’s me, the old shelter dog. Maybe you saw me when you came by?
To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how long I’ve been here. Days? Weeks? Months? We dogs don’t count things the way you do. We don’t measure love in numbers. We measure time in absences, in silences, in heartbeats that no longer echo.

Sometimes I wonder if I was really loved as much as I thought I was. Did you love me? I’m not talking about feeding me, walking me, or petting me when it was convenient. I mean love—the kind where you can’t imagine life without someone, where you don’t want to imagine it. Loving with your whole heart, your whole soul, everything you live for… That’s how I loved you.

I gave you everything I had, you know.
Every time I waited behind the door. Every time you came home. Every time I followed you without hesitation, wherever you went. I was always there, by your side. Even on your bad days. Even when you were angry.
That’s just what dogs do.

But now, here I am. Alone. Without you. Without anyone.

People come and go, you know—the ones just passing through.
I see them walking along the kennels, hesitant, casual, unsure if they belong here. Sometimes they stop. I always wonder… was it curiosity? Was it because I wagged my tail? Because I looked up?

Some of them slip a finger through the bars, like they’re testing the water. Those are the ones who smile at me, say a few kind words, then move on. I listen to them laugh, mumble, or sigh as they disappear down the aisle.

Sometimes I watch them leave with another dog. A younger one. A smaller one. A cuter one. One of the lucky ones who checks all the boxes.
But I don’t hold it against them. I just wonder… what about me? Who’s going to stop in front of my kennel one day and not look at me with that mix of pity and apology?

I know I’m not young anymore. I don’t jump as high. I don’t run as fast. My muzzle’s gone white, and I sleep more than I used to. I’ve got my little habits, but honestly, who doesn’t, at my age?
Still, I have so much left to give.

I don’t need to run for hours anymore, I promise. I don’t need a mansion or a backyard paradise. I just want someone to love, and someone who’ll love me back.
Someone who’ll let me rest my head on their lap. Someone who’ll look at me with soft eyes. Someone who’ll say, “Come on, let’s go,” and mean me. Someone I’ll wait for, every single day, with the same old joy. Someone who’ll be happy to see me walk toward them. Someone who’ll know they can count on me, and who’ll let me count on them, too.

But I’m an old dog. A dog of the past. A dog from another time. One of those dogs people don’t really see anymore, don’t adopt anymore, don’t choose anymore. Not often. Sometimes, by chance, someone turns a corner, spots us, and thinks, “Why not?” But usually, it’s not.

Maybe I’ll live out the rest of my days here. Who knows. Like that old shepherd who left last night, after years of pretending to believe that every lingering glance meant hope.
Maybe my last days will be behind these bars, eating lukewarm food and listening to unfamiliar barks.
Maybe I’ll go quietly, too, in the middle of the night, with no one there to hold me. Maybe. But for now, I’m still here.

So if you ever walk by and pass my cage, just… look at me. Really look at me. Forget the bars. Forget the gray in my fur. Forget how old I am. Look at me, or at least what’s left of me, and maybe then, you’ll see it. Because that’s all that’s really left of an old dog: a heart that may be a little worn, a little tired, but still overflowing with love—for whoever’s willing to let me give it.