So, I never really thought I’d be posting something like this on the internet, but here I am—fingers shaking, heart pounding, trying to gather my thoughts into something coherent enough that other people might actually read.
I guess I should start at the beginning.
A few months ago, I was scrolling through pet adoption listings online. I wasn’t looking for anything specific—just that little spark, you know? That sudden, heart-thumping feeling of “That’s the one.” People told me to keep an open mind, so that’s exactly what I did. I was prepared for an older dog, a younger dog, a cat, maybe even a bunny. I just wanted to adopt an animal in need.
And then I saw this puppy.
His picture was the first thing to pop up in my feed that morning. It was a bit blurry, and the lighting was terrible. But he had these giant paws and soulful eyes. His fur was a little uneven in color—sort of patchy in some places. And okay, I’ll be honest, he wasn’t exactly a show dog in the conventional sense. I remember staring at that photo for a good five minutes, trying to decide if I was imagining the sadness in his eyes or if it was actually there.
I decided right then and there: I had to meet him.
So I drove out to this rescue organization the following weekend. They had a big event going on, lots of families, lots of kids running around. My nerves were going wild. I was so afraid someone else would see what I saw in that puppy and snatch him up before I could even say hello.
But there he was, sitting by himself in a corner of a pen, while a bunch of other puppies tumbled around, play-fighting and being adorable. He just watched them quietly, like he was thinking a thousand thoughts at once. I asked one of the volunteers if I could hold him, and she said, “Oh, you want that one?” like she was surprised.
I won’t lie—it stung a little.
She handed him to me and said something along the lines of, “He’s a little shy, and he’s, well…some people think he’s not very cute.” I could feel him trembling in my arms, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
I just kept thinking, “He’s perfect.”
Of course, adopting a puppy was a big decision. I had to make sure I could handle it financially, emotionally, and practically. I went through the usual questions: “Is my apartment dog-friendly? Do I have enough time to take him on walks and vet appointments? Will I be able to handle training?” All those doubts were swirling in my head.
But the moment I locked eyes with him, I knew the answer to all those questions was yes.
I named him Oakley (don’t ask me why—I just thought it suited him somehow). When I signed the papers and finally brought him home, I was prepared for the usual puppy chaos: chewing on shoes, having accidents in the house, crying at night. And trust me, we had our fair share of that.
What I wasn’t prepared for was how other people reacted to him.
The first hint of trouble was when my neighbor—who’s generally friendly—came over to say hi. She took one look at Oakley and said, “Oh…that’s…an interesting-looking dog.” Her tone was so awkward, it almost felt like she was forcing herself to be polite. She patted his head once, sort of half-heartedly, and then quickly left.
A few days later, I took Oakley to the park for the first time. I was excited, thinking about how he might make some puppy friends. He was definitely curious—tail wagging a little, nose sniffing everywhere. But every time we approached another dog owner, I’d get these weird stares. Sometimes people would ask what breed he was, and I’d say I wasn’t entirely sure, that he was a rescue mix. Then I’d get these looks—like I had some explaining to do for adopting a dog that didn’t look like the perfect little golden retriever or the fluffy doodle everyone else had.
I tried to shrug it off, but it got worse.
There was one particular incident that really hurt. A group of kids came over to see the “puppy,” and I overheard one of them whisper to another, “Ew, that one’s ugly.” Now, they’re just kids, right? But I felt my face burn, and I could sense Oakley stiffen, like he somehow understood the negativity directed at him.
It was heartbreaking.
I started noticing how many people seemed reluctant to come near him. A few acquaintances made comments about his coloring or the shape of his face, as if they were trying to guess if there was something “wrong” with him. One person even asked if he was sick because he had a couple of patches where his fur was thinner.
He’s perfectly healthy. He just doesn’t have that picture-perfect puppy look.
And then I made the mistake of posting a photo of him on my Facebook page. I was so proud of him—he was learning to sit on command, and he had this sweet way of tilting his head whenever I said his name. I thought my friends and family would see what I saw: a sweet, intelligent, goofy little puppy who just wanted love.
But instead, I got some pretty mean comments. People wrote things like, “Oh, wow, interesting choice,” or “He looks kinda scary, are you sure about him?” And the worst part was, I got almost zero likes compared to when my other friends posted their brand-new puppies. It was petty, but it hurt. It felt like validation that people truly saw him as “ugly.”
That’s when I posted that short status update: “They don’t like me because I’m ugly,” with a broken heart emoji. I was sad, frustrated, and felt alone in all of this.
I’m not usually the kind of person to get worked up over social media reactions, but it’s different when it involves a living, breathing little creature who depends on you for love and care. Oakley can’t speak for himself. He can’t tell people how it makes him feel to be rejected or overlooked. And the worst part is, I can’t really explain to him why some people don’t want to come near him.
It’s not that everyone’s been mean, though. A handful of friends have been incredibly supportive, and they see exactly what I see in Oakley. They’ve told me, “He’s so lucky to have you,” or “He’s adorable in his own unique way.” Those comments have been like a warm blanket around my heart when everything else feels cold.
Still, the negativity has taken a toll on me. I find myself dreading going to the park because I don’t want to see the pitying looks or hear the whispers. I avoid posting pictures of Oakley online now. I even started second-guessing myself, wondering if I made a mistake. Should I have adopted a puppy that was more obviously “cute”? Is this going to be a lifelong battle for acceptance?
I hate that these thoughts even cross my mind, but there they are.
And then something happened last week that flipped the script a little.
I was walking Oakley around the neighborhood, trying to avoid peak dog-walking hours. I just wanted a peaceful stroll without the stares. Out of nowhere, this older gentleman I’d never seen before approached us. He looked like he might be in his seventies, wearing a flannel shirt and an old baseball cap. He asked if he could pet Oakley, and I braced myself for another awkward moment.
But he knelt down slowly, gently patted Oakley’s head, and said, “Well, aren’t you the sweetest little thing?” Oakley’s tail went berserk. He licked the man’s hand and even tried to climb onto his lap. The man chuckled and said, “My old dog was a mutt just like you. Had the biggest heart in the world.”
I could feel tears burning the back of my eyes.
We ended up talking for nearly twenty minutes. He told me stories about his old dog, how everyone said that dog was “nothing special,” but he was the best companion the man ever had. He looked me square in the eye and said, “Don’t let anyone tell you your pup’s not worth it. He’s worth everything.”
It was such a simple statement, but it felt like the biggest gift. For the first time in a long while, I felt a genuine surge of hope.
Since that day, I’ve been trying to focus on the positives. Oakley’s training is going surprisingly well—he’s learned how to sit, stay, come, and he’s getting the hang of walking on a leash without pulling. He’s incredibly sweet and affectionate with me. When I get home from work, he greets me like I’m the greatest person on earth. That alone makes every stressful moment worth it.
But I’d be lying if I said everything’s perfect now.
Just yesterday, I overheard someone mutter, “That’s the dog I was telling you about,” when I passed by. I didn’t stick around to hear the rest of the conversation, but I can guess it wasn’t a compliment. It still hurts, and it still makes me want to retreat from the world sometimes.
I’m torn between wanting to show him off—because I love him so much—and wanting to protect him from any more negativity. Sometimes I feel guilty for not taking him to more social settings, but at the same time, I don’t want him to sense my anxiety and think he’s doing something wrong.
So that’s where I’m at. Stuck between wanting to shout from the rooftops that my puppy is amazing and wanting to hide him away so no one can judge him. I know that might sound dramatic, but this whole experience has been an emotional rollercoaster. I never expected a dog’s appearance to matter so much to people. I guess I underestimated how shallow or how quick to judge some folks can be.
The good news is, Oakley doesn’t know he’s “ugly,” and I intend to keep it that way. To me, he’s not ugly at all—he’s perfect. And if that makes me a biased dog parent, so be it. I’d rather be biased than unkind.
I’m sharing this here because I need to let it out. And maybe I’m hoping someone else out there has gone through something similar, or knows what it’s like to love a dog that isn’t “traditionally” cute in everyone’s eyes. It’s harder than I thought to handle all these comments and stares. Sometimes I feel like I’m failing him, like I’m not standing up for him enough.
But every night, when he curls up next to me and rests his head on my lap, I remember why I did this in the first place. That trust he has in me? That unconditional love? That’s the real beauty. And no amount of rude comments can take that away.
I’m not sure what’s going to happen next. I wish I could say I’m 100% confident that I’ll rise above all the negativity and be this amazing, unshakable dog mom. But the truth is, I’m still figuring it out. I still get hurt, and I still worry about the future. I still wonder if I’m doing right by Oakley.
But I’m holding onto hope. Hope that one day, people will see what I see. Hope that Oakley will make friends at the park who love him for who he is. Hope that this whole experience will make me a stronger, more compassionate person. And maybe, just maybe, someone out there reading this will feel less alone in their own struggles.
For now, Oakley is lying at my feet, snoring softly, completely unaware that I’m typing out our life story for strangers on the internet. And I guess that’s the beauty of dogs—they don’t care about appearances, social media likes, or petty judgments. They just care about love, companionship, and that squeaky toy hidden under the couch.
So yeah, that’s where I’m at. Feeling a little raw, a little scared, but also hopeful.
They told me my puppy was too ugly to love, and I’m not sure I can handle it. But I’m trying, day by day. And for now, that has to be enough.