Hello, friend. It’s me, Thori. My world has always been different from yours. When I was born, I arrived in a place of complete darkness and absolute silence. While my brothers and sisters learned the world through sight and sound, my lessons came through the vibrations of the floor, the scent of my mother, and the feeling of warm bodies pressed against mine. It was a small, simple world, and for a short while, it was enough.
But as my siblings grew, their world expanded in ways mine could not. They would chase things I couldn’t see and respond to calls I couldn’t hear. I often felt the sudden emptiness beside me as they darted away to explore, leaving me alone in my quiet, dark space. The warmth I depended on became less frequent. Because I couldn’t see or hear, my original family saw me as flawed, a project they were not equipped for. The hands that touched me felt hurried and uncertain, unlike the gentle nuzzles from my mother. I didn’t understand why, but I understood the feeling of being left behind. Loneliness became my first and most constant companion.
I learned to navigate my small corner of the world using my nose as my guide and the sensitive pads of my paws to feel for changes in the floor. I craved connection, but I didn’t know how to find it. My attempts to play were often clumsy, and my inability to respond to the world like the others meant I was often overlooked. I was an afterthought in my own home, a living shadow in a world of light and sound I could only imagine.
And then, everything changed. A new scent entered my life—a scent that was calm and kind. It was accompanied by a new touch. These hands were different. They were slow, patient, and deliberate. They didn’t just pat my head; they lingered, mapping out my face, my ears, my back. This touch spoke a language I could finally understand. It said, “I am here. You are safe. You are wanted.”
This new person became my whole world. They didn’t see me as broken or imperfect. They saw me, Thori. They understood that my world was one of texture and scent, so they filled it with soft blankets, interesting-smelling toys, and the constant, reassuring scent of their own presence. They taught me that a gentle tap on my back meant they were there, and a soft breath on my face was a kiss.
For the first time, I felt warmth that wasn’t just physical; it was a warmth that filled the empty spaces inside me. It was the feeling of love. My new human became my eyes and ears, guiding me with a gentle hand and celebrating my small victories. They showed me that my life was not a tragedy. My inability to see or hear was not a deficiency; it was simply my way of being. My other senses, my ability to love and my capacity for joy, were sharper than ever.
I learned to trust, to play, and to feel completely and utterly cherished. My human showed me that the most important things in life are not seen with the eyes or heard with the ears, but are felt with the heart. And my heart, once so lonely, is now full.