I do not know if my name matters anymore. There was probably a time, long ago, when someone called me by it with affection—when the sound of my name meant warmth, safety, and the promise of another day filled with love. Perhaps there was once a place I called home, a corner where I slept without fear, a pair of hands that reached down to stroke my fur, a voice that made my tail wag before I even understood why. But life has a strange way of taking memories and turning them into shadows, and when every day becomes a fight for survival, even the sweetest memories begin to fade. These days, I am no longer remembered by a name. To most people who pass us by, I am simply “that sick dog.” Sometimes they call me “the ugly one.” Sometimes they say nothing at all, and their silence somehow hurts even more.
I have heard the word “ugly” so many times that I should be used to it by now. I hear it when people stop a few feet away and stare longer than they mean to. I hear it when children point their tiny fingers at us, asking questions their parents are too uncomfortable to answer. I hear it in the whispered conversations between strangers who wrinkle their noses, pull their coats closer, and cross the street as though being too close to us might somehow stain their perfect world. Some people try not to look. Others stare openly. And every now and then, someone says it loud enough for even my little one to hear—“Look at them… they’re so ugly.”
Every time I hear those words, I do the same thing. I move closer to my baby. I wrap my tired body around that small trembling life, pulling my little one closer to my chest as if love alone could shield us from cruelty. Because no matter what the world sees when they look at us—no matter how many scars cover our skin, no matter how much fur we have lost, no matter how sick or broken we may appear—when I look at my baby, I do not see ugliness. I do not see disease. I do not see pain. I see everything worth fighting for.
My baby is the reason I wake up every morning, even when every muscle in my body begs me to stay still. My baby is the reason I stand up when my legs tremble beneath me. My baby is the reason I search through empty streets for scraps of food, even when my stomach aches with hunger and my skin burns so badly that every step feels like walking through fire. Before I became a mother, I thought survival meant finding enough food to make it through the night, finding shelter before the rain came, avoiding danger wherever it hid. But becoming a mother taught me something far greater than survival. It taught me what it means to live for someone other than yourself.
We both suffer from mange. I do not know exactly when it began. Perhaps it started long before my baby was born. Perhaps it came from years of neglect, from sleeping on cold ground, from fighting off sickness alone with no medicine, no shelter, no one to care enough to notice. All I know is that it never truly stops. Our skin burns constantly, day and night. The itching is relentless, a cruel kind of pain that follows us even into sleep. Sometimes it becomes so unbearable that my little one wakes up in the middle of the night, scratching tiny paws against fragile skin until it bleeds. Sometimes I hear soft cries in the darkness—small, confused sounds that no baby should ever have to make. And each time, I pull my baby closer, licking those tiny wounds, whispering comfort in the only language I know, wishing with every piece of my heart that I could take all that pain and carry it myself.
I still remember the day my baby came into this world. There were no warm blankets. No safe walls. No soft hands waiting to welcome new life. There was only dirt beneath us, cold wind moving through broken spaces, and the constant fear that danger could appear at any moment. I remember how small my baby looked, how fragile, how helpless. I remember that first cry, that first movement, those tiny eyes opening for the very first time—and in that moment, everything changed. The hunger no longer mattered. The pain no longer mattered. The fear no longer mattered. Because from that moment on, my life no longer belonged to me.
It belonged to my baby.
There were nights when I found food but refused to eat until my baby’s stomach was full. Nights when rain soaked our bodies until we could barely stop shaking, and I curled myself around that tiny life, using what little warmth remained in my body to keep my baby alive. Nights when my skin bled from scratching and infection, when every movement hurt, when exhaustion pulled at every muscle in my body… and still, I stayed awake, listening to every sound, every footstep, every passing car, every possible danger that might come too close. Because mothers do not stop fighting simply because they are tired. Mothers do not stop loving simply because the world has become cruel.
As my baby grew, so did the stares. So did the whispers. People saw our missing fur, our cracked skin, our scars, our limping steps, and they made their judgments before ever knowing our story. They saw sickness and assumed weakness. They saw scars and assumed ugliness. They saw two broken bodies and never stopped long enough to notice the love that had kept us alive through all of it.
And sometimes I wonder… if they looked a little closer, would they still say the same things? Would they still call us ugly if they saw the way my baby searches for me whenever fear appears? Would they still turn away if they saw how those tiny eyes close peacefully only when hearing the sound of my heartbeat? Would they still wrinkle their noses if they saw how we share every meal, every shelter, every moment of warmth, every small victory over another impossible day?
Because what they call ugly… I call love.
What they call damaged… I call survival.
What they call broken… I call strength.
I may never have soft fur again. My baby may never look like the puppies people proudly carry home in their arms. Our bodies may always carry the marks of sickness, hardship, and the life we have endured. But scars are not ugliness. Scars are proof that something survived what should have destroyed it.
And every scar on our bodies tells the same story—that life tried to break us, and somehow, through pain, through sickness, through loneliness, through hunger, through nights colder than words can describe…
We survived.
Still, even after everything, I dream. I dream of a place where my baby can sleep through the night without scratching until the skin breaks. I dream of soft blankets, clean skin, warm meals, and a home where no one points, no one whispers, and no one looks away. I dream of a day when my little one can run without pain, play without fear, and grow up believing that love is stronger than cruelty.
And until that day comes, I will keep walking. I will keep fighting. I will keep loving with every beat of this tired heart.
Because the world may look at my baby and me and see two ugly dogs.
But when I look into my baby’s eyes…
I see something far more beautiful than perfection.
I see hope.
And as long as hope still lives inside us…
We will never be ugly.
