What’s wrong with me…?
Fillyjonk has been living in the shelter for two years now. Two years — that’s longer than her entire life before. She was found tiny, dirty, with bits of something inedible stuck to her little paws. She sat in a box by the market, where hundreds of people passed by — no one stopped. No one looked her way. No one asked what her name was. As if this dog didn’t exist at all.
But she did exist. With a tiny heart that fluttered at every footstep nearby. With little paws that trembled from the cold. With eyes — far too big, far too pure for this world.
They named her Fillyjonk — because there was a certain special, quiet sadness about her. Not whiny, not self-pitying. Just silent. Deep. As if she had always known — she was unlucky to be born in this body, in this world, in this place. Too fragile. Too curly. Too sensitive. And creatures like that don’t survive.
And yet, she did survive. At the shelter, they fed her, treated her. She became a little rounder, a little more active, a little louder. But still — an outsider. She had always been different. In the room where the puppies barked, jumped, played — she sat in the corner. Not because she didn’t want to play. But because too many times, she had been burned when she was the first to approach.
In these two years, she’s had seven chances to find a home. Seven. Seven times she was photographed, petted, promised a future. Once, they even took her home. Three days later, they brought her back — “She’s scared of sudden movements, doesn’t play, doesn’t meet expectations.”
As if she were a defective toy.
Since then, she hardly comes close to strangers. She only watches. That look… There’s no hope in it, no despair. There’s just a question. One single, tormenting question:
“What’s wrong with me?”
No one knows how to answer. Because there’s nothing wrong with her.
The problem is with us.
With those who choose based on breed, on fashion, on “energy level.” With those who don’t see the soul beneath the fur. Who don’t notice how much can be said with a single, quiet glance.
And she’s still waiting. Sitting in the corner of her kennel. A bowl of water nearby. A blanket. And that gaze. Wordless — yet reaching straight into your heart.
And if you happened to read this all the way to the end — know this:
Maybe you are her person.
The one who isn’t afraid of silence.
The one who sees a little deeper.
The one who will one day say:
“You’re not a misfit.
You’re the most precious thing that ever happened to me.”
What’s wrong with me…?
Fillyjonk has been living in the shelter for two years now. Two years — that’s longer than her entire life before. She was found tiny, dirty, with bits of something inedible stuck to her little paws. She sat in a box by the market, where hundreds of people passed by — no one stopped. No one looked her way. No one asked what her name was. As if this dog didn’t exist at all.
But she did exist. With a tiny heart that fluttered at every footstep nearby. With little paws that trembled from the cold. With eyes — far too big, far too pure for this world.
They named her Fillyjonk — because there was a certain special, quiet sadness about her. Not whiny, not self-pitying. Just silent. Deep. As if she had always known — she was unlucky to be born in this body, in this world, in this place. Too fragile. Too curly. Too sensitive. And creatures like that don’t survive.
And yet, she did survive. At the shelter, they fed her, treated her. She became a little rounder, a little more active, a little louder. But still — an outsider. She had always been different. In the room where the puppies barked, jumped, played — she sat in the corner. Not because she didn’t want to play. But because too many times, she had been burned when she was the first to approach.
In these two years, she’s had seven chances to find a home. Seven. Seven times she was photographed, petted, promised a future. Once, they even took her home. Three days later, they brought her b
