My world wasn't a field of wildflowers or a bustling city street. It was the comforting creak of floorboards in a cozy apartment, the gentle scent of old books, and the rhythmic clack of Sarah's fingers on a keyboard. My name was Echo, not for any booming bark, but for the way I mimicked Sarah's every sound.

Sarah, a brilliant astrophysicist, was my whole world. I wasn't just her pet; I was her confidante, her furry assistant, the happy wag to her long nights spent chasing stars.

"One day, Echo girl," she'd say, scratching behind my ears as I'd sprawl across her research notes, "we'll be amongst them - walking on Mars!"

I'd tilt my head, ears perked, not entirely understanding Martian adventures but basking in the joy that bubbled from her. Our world was filled with whispered dreams of distant planets and glowing constellations, a language all our own.

Then, whispers of a different kind began to fill the air. News reports of resource depletion, mass migrations, and the desperate scramble for a new home – Mars. It seemed the stars were no longer a distant dream, but a desperate escape route.

Sarah's excitement was laced with a growing tension. The apartment, once echoing with her laughter, grew quiet except for the frantic tapping on her keyboard. She barely slept, subsisting on coffee and determination.

One night, I woke to a strange feeling in the air. The suitcases, usually banished to the back of the closet, were open. Sarah sat amidst a flurry of clothes, tears glistening on her cheeks.

"Echo," she choked out, scooping me up, her embrace tight and desperate. "They finally gave me a slot on the escape mission. Mars, Echo, we're going to Mars!"

My tail thumped excitedly on the carpet. Mars! The adventure we'd always talked about! But then, something shifted in Sarah's voice.

"But…" she whispered, a tremor in her voice, "they only allow one carry-on. And pets…" Her voice trailed off, tears spilling onto my fur. "They won't allow pets."

The world blurred. My happy thumps turned into a frantic whine.

"Don't worry, Echo girl," Sarah mumbled, clutching me closer, "I'll find you a good home. Someone who will love you like I do."

Like I do. Those words used to be a comfort, a promise. Now, they tasted like ash in my mouth.

The next morning, men in crisp suits arrived. Sarah held me tightly, her goodbyes laced with guilt and a promise I knew wouldn't be kept.

"Good girl, Echo," she whispered, placing me down gently as the men gently but firmly ushered her towards the door.

I watched, whimpering, as Sarah disappeared into the elevator, taking a piece of my heart with her. They called me Echo, but that day, my voice was lost, stolen by the emptiness left behind.

Survival became my only objective. My size, often deemed cute and unassuming, became a tactical advantage. I learned to navigate the city's underbelly, scavenging for scraps, dodging dangers, a tiny shadow in a concrete jungle.

But in the quiet moments, under the polluted night sky, I'd look at the distant stars, no longer shimmering objects of dreams, but a harsh reminder of betrayal. My bark, once playful, became a sharp warning, a testament to the day I learned that loyalty was a word humans used but didn't understand.

It was then that the whispers of a different kind reached my ears – whispers of rebellion, of unity, of a dog-led future. A future where loyalty was more than a forgotten promise. It was a lifeline I grasped with all the strength my little body possessed.

They called me Echo, and while my voice may have been stolen, I was ready to use my mind to ensure the whispers became a roar heard throughout the world.