I was out for an ordinary walk with my rescue dogs when a neighbor decided they didn’t belong in our neighborhood. What followed taught her, and a few others, that kindness has a way of standing its ground.
I’m 75 years old, born and raised in Tennessee. I’ve spent most of my life taking in the ones nobody else wanted. I didn’t plan it that way when I was younger. It just happened, one broken and forgotten thing at a time.
I didn’t plan it that way when I was younger.
As a girl, I initially found injured birds near the creek. Then it was stray cats when my husband and I bought our little house. After he passed, it became dogs.
Not the cute ones folks lined up for, but those that people whispered about. The scared ones. The injured ones. The ones who had already learned what it felt like to be left behind.
That’s how I ended up with Pearl and Buddy.
After he passed, it became dogs.
They were small rescue dogs, both under 20 pounds, both unable to use their back legs.
Pearl had been hit by a car, and Buddy was born that way. The rescue group fitted them with wheels, and that changed everything.
My dogs don’t walk or run like others; they roll.
Their tiny carts make soft clicking sounds on the pavement, and when they move, their whole bodies seem to smile!
They wag their tails as if they’ve never known anything but joy.
My dogs don’t walk or run like others; they roll.
When I walk them, most people smile when they see them, while others usually stop. Children wave and ask questions.
Grown folks bend down low and ask their names or say things like, “Well, will you look at you,” or “Aren’t you two something special.”
Anyone with a heart can see it right away. These dogs have survived.
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