Home Design 11, 19 Division Street #1, New York, NY (2025)

12/20/2025

Everyone thinks they know what a dog smells like. But when Patrick Swayze was confronted about the aroma of his home, he offered a definition so beautiful and unexpected, it instantly went viral among animal lovers. He listed five things his dogs smelled like: gratitude, nobility, affection, loyalty, and one thing totally absent: resentment. This last point holds the secret to why a dog's scent is actually the purest thing on earth...

🥺 Read the full story of what happened next... in the comments!👇

12/18/2025

Last Sunday, December 14th, was supposed to be a peaceful day of rest. It was crisp. The coffee was hot. I opened the back door to let Moose out for his morning patrol.
Everything was fine for exactly three minutes.
Then, my neighbor, Mr. Henderson, decided it was time to unleash his holiday spirit. Mr. Henderson does not do subtle. He bought a "Mega-Santa 3000" a 12-foot-tall inflatable lawn decoration with an internal fan that sounds like a jet engine.
I was sipping my coffee when I heard the fan turn on. WHOOOOOSH.
Moose heard it too. He froze in the middle of the yard.
He watched, horrified, as a giant, red, wrinkly puddle on the other side of the chain-link fence began to rise from the dead.
First, the head inflated. Then the belly. Then the waving arm.
To Moose, this was not a decoration. This was a Red Kaiju rising from the earth to destroy the neighborhood.
Moose engaged "Defcon 1."
He let out a bark that rattled my fillings.
ROOO-ROOO!
"Moose, leave it!" I yelled, running to the door in my slippers.
But then, the wind picked up.
A gust of wind caught the 12-foot Santa. The giant plastic man leaned forward, looming over the fence, casting a shadow directly onto Moose.
Moose took this personally.
“THE RED GIANT IS ATTACKING! HOLD MY KIBBLE, MOTHER.”
Moose didn't bark anymore. He acted.
He ran to the fence. Now, a normal dog would bark through the fence.
Moose stood up on his hind legs. When Moose stands on his hind legs, he is taller than most NBA players.
He reached his front paws over the top of the fence.
He grabbed the inflatable Santa’s waving hand in his mouth.
And he pulled.
SCREEEECH. (That was the sound of nylon tearing).
POP. (That was the sound of the internal lightbulb dying).
HISSSSSSSSS. (That was the sound of Santa’s soul leaving his body).
The Santa began to deflate rapidly. It slumped forward, draping itself over the fence like a wet towel.
Moose didn't let go. He shook his head violently, thrashing the deflating plastic man back and forth.
Mr. Henderson ran out of his house. "HEY! HEY!"
I ran into the yard. "MOOSE! DROP THE SANTA!"
Moose looked at me, wild-eyed, still holding the limp, red plastic arm in his teeth.
The rest of Santa was draped sadly over the fence, looking like he had had a very rough night at a holiday party.
Moose’s tail wagged tentatively.
“I killed him, Mother. I killed the Red Monster. We are safe now.”
I had to walk over to the fence. I had to pry the plastic sleeve out of his jaws. I had to look Mr. Henderson in the eye while my dog licked his lips, tasting the victory of nylon and electricity.
"He... uh... he thought it was an intruder," I stammered.
Mr. Henderson looked at his flat Santa. He looked at Moose.
"That thing cost $150," he said.
So, here I am. I am $150 poorer. Mr. Henderson’s yard is empty.
And Moose?
He is sleeping peacefully. But every now and then, he lifts his head, looks out the window at the neighbor's yard, and lets out a soft, satisfied snort.
The Red Giant is gone. The yard is his again.
And I have to go buy a "Beware of Dog (He Hates Christmas)" sign.

12/18/2025

Yesterday (Monday), I looked at the calendar and realized it was December 15th. I have sent zero holiday cards. I have taken zero festive photos.
So, in a moment of hubris, I decided to stage a DIY photoshoot in the living room.
"How hard can it be?" I thought. "He’s a handsome dog. I own a camera. We’ll be done in ten minutes."
I am a fool.
Phase 1: The Set Design
I hung a white bedsheet over the bookshelf to create a "Snowy Backdrop." I strung twinkling fairy lights across it. I scattered cotton balls on the floor to simulate "fresh powder."
It looked magical. It looked like Pinterest.
Then, Moose entered.
He saw the cotton balls. He stopped. He sniffed.
“Marshmallows?”
He ate three cotton balls before I could tackle him.
"No! It's snow! Don't eat the snow!"
He looked at me, a strand of cotton hanging from his lip like a wizard’s beard, and spat it out with a look of deep betrayal. “Flavorless clouds. Why do you mock me?”
Phase 2: The Costume
I bought a pair of felt reindeer antlers. The package said "One Size Fits All."
The package lied.
Moose’s head is the size of a Thanksgiving turkey platter. The elastic strap was stretching for its life.
I put them on him.
He froze. He clamped his ears down. His eyes went wide and shifted side-to-side. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, if the deer was also having an existential crisis.
He refused to move. He just stood there, vibrating, channeling his inner statue.
Phase 3: The Shoot
I set up the camera on a tripod. I set the 10-second timer.
"Okay, Moose. Stay. Look pretty."
I pressed the button. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I ran to stand next to him.
Moose saw me running.
Moose thought, “CHASE ME.”
He broke his statue pose. He lunged.
CL1CK.
Photo #1: A blurry streak of brown fur and my terrified face falling out of the frame.
I reset. "Moose. Sit. Stay."
I held up a piece of cheese to bribe him.
I pressed the button. I ran back.
Moose stared at the cheese. He was focused. He was intense.
But then, he noticed the fairy lights behind us. One of them blinked.
Moose spun around to fight the blinking light.
CL1CK.
Photo #2: A perfect, high-definition shot of Moose’s butt.
Phase 4: The Catastrophe
For the third attempt, I decided to sit on the floor holding him.
I wrapped my arms around his neck. "Just one nice picture, please."
The timer started. Beep... Beep...
Moose felt the love. He decided to reciprocate.
He leaned back.
Now, when a 165-pound dog leans back, gravity takes over.
We toppled over. I fell backward into the "Snowy Backdrop."
My foot caught the fairy lights.
The lights pulled the bookshelf.
The bookshelf didn't fall (thank god), but a heavy encyclopedia of birds slid off the top shelf.
THUD.
It landed on the floor, inches from my head.
Moose heard the thud. He panicked.
He tried to scramble up, but his legs were tangled in the bedsheet I had hung up.
He stood up, wearing the sheet like a cape. The antlers were now hanging around his neck like a necklace. He looked like a low-budget superhero named "Captain Chaos."
CL1CK.
Photo #3: Moose standing triumphantly over my prone body, wearing a sheet, looking wild-eyed, while I am buried under cotton balls and fairy lights.
The Aftermath
We gave up.
I spent an hour untangling the lights from his paws.
He spent an hour sighing and trying to eat the felt antlers.
But here’s the thing. I looked at Photo #3 again.
It’s chaotic. It’s messy. I look disheveled. Moose looks insane.
But it’s us.
So, I’m printing it. I’m sending it to 50 people.
The caption will read: "Peace on Earth. (We have none. Send help.)"
Happy Holidays from the Trenches.

12/18/2025

She’s home… and she’s still fighting.💔🐾
This brave Pit Bull has finally made it home after surgery.
Her strong body has been shaved, marked with stitches and bruises —
clear signs of a battle she never chose.
Yet her eyes still hold trust,
her heart remains calm,
and her soul is filled with quiet love.
Curled up on the couch, she finally allows herself to rest.
Exhausted. Vulnerable. Safe.
No complaints.
No anger.
Just that steady patience and resilience
that Pit Bulls are so well known for.
Pit Bulls don’t understand what surgery is,
they don’t know why needles hurt,
or why everything suddenly changed.
But they understand love.
They understand loyalty.
They understand when their humans stay close —
silent, steady, and strong.
Tonight, she sleeps at home —
where she is safe.
Wrapped in warmth,
surrounded by care,
and watched over by the people she would give everything for.
Healing won’t happen overnight.
But step by step, she’ll rise again —
because the heart of a Pit Bull
is stronger than pain,
stronger than fear,
and stronger than the misconceptions of the world. ❤️🐶
Send her a little ❤️ for a smooth and gentle recovery.

12/17/2025

I am currently vacuuming an entire forest out of my living room rug.

Back in November, the trees decided to dump their entire inventory on my lawn. It looked like a confetti factory had exploded.

Being a responsible homeowner, I decided to rake. I spent three hours constructing "Mount Maple." It was a pile of leaves six feet wide and four feet high. It was a monument to my labor.

Then, I made the mistake of letting Moose out to "help."

Moose saw the pile. He stopped. He sniffed the air.
To him, this wasn't yard waste. This was a mysterious, crunchy beast that had appeared on his turf.

He approached it with caution, legs stiff, tail twitching.
He poked it with his nose.
Crinkle.
The pile made a sound.
Moose jumped back, barked once, and then decided it was Go Time.

He initiated Operation: Crunch.

He didn't just jump into the pile. He dove. He leaped into the air like a dolphin breaching the ocean and came down nose-first into the center of the leaves.
He disappeared completely.
For three seconds, the yard was silent.
Then, the pile began to thrash. It looked like an invisible monster was having a seizure inside the leaves.

Suddenly, Moose erupted from the center like a volcano.
But something had happened. Physics had intervened.
The friction of his fur against the dry leaves had created a Static Electricity Event of nuclear proportions.

Moose was no longer a dog. He was a magnet.
Every single leaf in the pile was stuck to him. He looked like a Swamp Thing made of dead foliage. He had leaves on his eyes. He had leaves stuck to his jowls. His tail was a giant orange club.

He looked at me, wild-eyed.
“MOTHER! I AM THE KING OF AUTUMN!”

Then, the tragedy occurred.
A squirrel ran along the fence.
Moose saw the squirrel. He forgot about the laws of physics. He forgot about boundaries.
He took off.

He sprinted toward the squirrel. The squirrel ran toward the house.
The back door was open (because I was raking).
The squirrel went up the gutter.
Moose went... inside.

He thundered into the living room, a 165-pound blur of static and debris.
He realized the squirrel was gone. He stopped in the center of the Persian rug.
He felt itchy. The leaves were clinging to him.
He decided to fix it.

He shook.

If you have never seen a Great Dane shake off while covered in dry leaves, imagine a helicopter landing in a salad bar.
THWACK-THWACK-THWACK-THWACK.

The leaves flew. They hit the TV. They hit the ceiling fan. They drifted onto the bookshelves.
In five seconds, my living room went from "clean" to "Deep Woods Survival Simulator."

Moose stood there, naked and proud, surrounded by a perfect circle of destruction.
He looked at the mess. He looked at me standing in the doorway with my rake.
He grabbed a singular, large oak leaf that was slowly floating down, crunched it in his mouth, and wagged his tail.

“I redecorated,” his face said. “It feels more natural in here. You’re welcome.”

I spent the rest of November finding leaves in places leaves should not be. I found one in the toaster. I found one in my pillowcase.

Moose is currently banned from raking duties. But every time we go outside, he looks at the trees with a longing stare, waiting for them to drop more toys for him to wear.

12/17/2025

I am currently holding a funeral for a pile of snow named "Frosty."

Yesterday (Saturday), we got our first real snow of the season. It covered the mud. It made the world look innocent.

Feeling whimsical, I went into the backyard and built a snowman. I was proud of him. I gave him a carrot nose. I gave him stick arms. I even sacrificed my own wool scarf to keep him warm.
He stood about five feet tall. He looked dashing. He looked friendly.

Then, I released the Kraken. I mean, Moose.

Moose flew out the back door with his usual grace, which is to say, he slipped on the icy patio, scrambled his legs like a Scooby-Doo cartoon, and slid sideways into the grass.

He stood up. He shook off.
And then... he saw HIM.

The Intruder. The White Giant. The Silent Watcher.

Moose froze. He went rigid. His tail went straight up like a flagpole. The hackles on his back rose like a stegosaurus.
He let out a low, rumbling growl that vibrated in his chest.
“Identify yourself, Cold Man.”

The snowman said nothing. The snowman just smiled his coal-tooth smile.
This silence infuriated Moose.
He began the "Circle of Judgment." He walked in wide, tight circles around the snowman, huffing clouds of steam into the cold air like a disgruntled dragon.

He lunged. Fake out.
The snowman didn't flinch.
Moose was rattled. “He has nerves of steel, Mother. He does not fear the Dane.”

Then, Moose saw the carrot.
Now, Moose loves carrots. To him, a carrot is a crunchy orange treasure.
He realized that this intruder was mocking him by wearing a snack on his face.

Moose made his move.
He didn't tackle the snowman. That would be too simple.
He decided to perform a surgical extraction.
He stretched his long neck out. He opened his jaws gently.
CHOMP.

He got the carrot.
But he also got the head.

The structural integrity of Frosty was compromised.
The head rolled off the body. It hit Moose’s paw.
Moose jumped four feet into the air.
“HE IS ATTACKING ME! THE HEAD IS MOBILE!”

He landed directly on the snowman's body.
CRUNCH. SQUISH.
165 pounds of Great Dane vs. packed snow.
The snowman exploded.

Moose stood in the center of the carnage. He was covered in snow. He was wearing my scarf, which had somehow wrapped around his ankle during the panic. He was crunching the carrot loudly.

He looked around the yard. He looked at the flattened pile of snow.
He looked at me with pure pride.
“I saved us, Mother. The Cold Man is dead. I have eaten his nose.”

He then proceeded to do victory zoomies through the wreckage, kicking snowballs against the back door and dragging my scarf through a mud puddle.

We are now inside. Moose is asleep by the fire.
He still has a piece of coal stuck to his elbow.
I am drinking hot cocoa and mourning my scarf.

The neighbors probably think I’m running a fight club for snowmen.
And honestly? Looking at the destruction in the yard... I kind of am.

12/16/2025

I am currently updating my LinkedIn profile because my dog just committed corporate sabotage.

Yesterday (Thursday) was meant to be a professional day. It was the day of the Quarterly Budget Review. This is a meeting where people wear blazers, nod seriously, and use words like "synergy" and "fiscal Q4."

I prepared the "Office Bunker" (the guest bedroom). I put on a nice shirt (and pajama pants, obviously). I set up my laptop. I specifically gave Moose a frozen Kong filled with peanut butter in the kitchen to keep him occupied for 45 minutes.

I forgot one crucial detail: Moose finishes peanut butter in four minutes.

The meeting started at 2:00 PM. By 2:15 PM, I was in the middle of presenting a very serious slide about marketing expenses. I was feeling confident. I was articulate. I was "in the zone."

Then, I heard it.
Click.
The sound of the door handle.

As established in the "Gift Wrapping Incident," Moose has learned that door handles are merely suggestions. He applied the "Dane Lean" to the door.
It drifted open slowly.

I saw him in my peripheral vision. A giant, spotted silent shadow. He didn't bark. He didn't run. He simply glided into the room like a ghost cow.

I kept talking to the camera, praying he would just lie down.
"As you can see in column B, the projected growth..."

Moose walked up behind my chair. He appeared in the background of my video feed.
My boss paused. "Is... is there a horse behind you?"

I laughed nervously. "Ha! Just the dog. Sorry. Anyway, regarding the budget..."

Moose was offended by my dismissal. He decided that if I was talking to the glowing box, the glowing box must be important. He needed to inspect the glowing box.

He squeezed himself between my chair and the desk.
Now, there is not a lot of room there. Maybe six inches. Moose is three feet wide.
He wedged his massive ribcage against my elbow.
My arm shot out. I accidentally hit the "Next Slide" key 14 times. The presentation went into seizure mode.

"Moose, get down," I hissed through a frozen smile, trying to maintain eye contact with the CEO.

Moose ignored me. He saw the faces on the screen. He saw the CEO.
He leaned in.
Suddenly, my video feed was no longer me. It was 100% Moose Nostril.
Just a giant, wet, black nose breathing heavily into the 4K we**am.

HUUUUUUUH. HUUUUUUH.

The microphone picked up the sound. It sounded like Darth Vader having an asthma attack.

"He's... very close," a colleague whispered.

Then, Moose decided to offer a peace offering.
He had brought a toy with him. Not a cute toy. No. He brought "Mr. Squeaks."
Mr. Squeaks is a rubber chicken that lost its head three years ago. It is grey. It is slimy. It is the grossest object in my house.

Moose dropped the headless, slimy chicken directly onto my laptop keyboard.
SPLAT.
It hit the keyboard with a wet thud.
It hit the "Unmute" button (which was already on).
It hit the "Caps Lock" key.

"I brought you the carcass, Mother," his eyes said. "Feed it to the tiny people in the box."

I tried to grab the chicken. Moose thought we were playing.
He play-bowed.
His giant paw came down on the armrest of my office chair.

Now, office chairs are designed for humans. They are not designed for a 165-pound sudden impact.
The center of gravity shifted.
The wheels gave up.

I tipped backward.
It happened in slow motion. I saw the ceiling. I saw Moose’s confused face looking down at me. I saw the edge of the desk disappear.

CRASH.

I landed on the floor, legs in the air, still wearing my plaid pajama pants.
Moose immediately jumped on top of me to "save" me, licking my face frantically while standing on my stomach.

From the computer, which was still running, I heard my boss say:
"Did... did she just die?"
"I think the dog ate her."

I had to crawl literally crawl under the desk to reach the "End Meeting" button, while Moose stood over me, wagging his tail, hitting the printer with every thwack.

I sent an email later. "Technical Difficulties."

Moose is currently banned from the office. He is lying in the hallway, letting out deep, dramatic sighs, wondering why the tiny people in the box didn't want his chicken.

I think I’m going to tell them I hired an intern. A very large, very unqualified intern.

12/16/2025

I’m 90 years old, and a little while ago, I adopted a 14-year-old Husky named Blue.

His previous family brought him to a shelter and asked that he be put down—simply because they felt he was “too old” and no longer fit into their lives. The shelter staff refused. They said Blue still had love to give… and life left to live.

When people heard I was considering adopting him, many thought it was a mistake.
“Why would someone your age take on a dog?” they asked.

But when I walked into the shelter, Blue answered that question for me.

He didn’t bark.
He didn’t pull away.
He gently leaned his head into my chest, as if he already knew this was where he belonged.

A senior Husky and a senior woman—two souls who understood each other without words.

Now, Blue follows me from room to room. He naps beside my chair, rides quietly with me in the car, and wears cozy little sweaters to keep his aging bones warm. His blue eyes still sparkle, and every morning he greets me like I’m the best part of his day.

People like to say I rescued him.

But the truth is… Blue rescued me.

From the quiet.
From the loneliness.
From the feeling of days passing by unnoticed.

Together, we’re not chasing youth—we’re sharing peace.
Two old hearts, walking side by side, giving each other a gentle, loving final chapter.

And honestly… I wouldn’t want to spend it any other way. 💙🐾

12/16/2025

"At 76, you are a risk, Mrs. Vance. If something happens to you, the dog comes back." That sentence hit me harder than any doctor's diagnosis.
It was a gray, rainy October afternoon. I sat on a hard plastic chair at the animal shelter. Across from me was Matt, a young volunteer with a beard and an "Adopt, Don't Shop" t-shirt. He pushed my application aside.
"I’m sorry," Matt said. He wasn't being rude, just practical. "It’s a 10 to 15-year commitment. Statistically... well, you understand."
He didn't say what he really thought: You are too old. You are expiring.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. I had worked my whole life, paid taxes, raised children who now live in Phoenix and Seattle and only call at Christmas. And now, wanting only a living soul to talk to, I was told I wasn't "qualified."
"I understand," I whispered. My knees popped as I stood up.
I didn't leave immediately. I walked down the kennel hallway one last time. The noise was deafening—young dogs barking, jumping, begging for attention. Matt was right about them. I couldn't handle a young dog pulling on a leash. I was just an old lady with arthritis and a house that was too quiet.
Then, I saw him.
In the very last run, there was a pile of gray fur on a worn blanket. He didn't get up. The card on the cage read: "Rocky. 14 years old. Shepherd Mix. Owner surrendered. Heart condition. Hospice adoption needed."
"Hospice adoption." A nice way of saying he was waiting for the end.
I knelt down, ignoring the pain in my joints. "Hey there, old man," I whispered.
Rocky lifted his head slowly. His eyes were cloudy with cataracts, but when he looked at me, he saw me. He slowly stood up, his back legs trembling just like my hands do. He pressed his gray muzzle against the bars and sighed.
In that moment, we understood each other. We were both "leftovers." We were both in the autumn of our lives.
I stood up. I felt a strength I hadn't felt in years. I marched back to the office.
"Did you forget something, Mrs. Vance?" Matt asked.
"I want Rocky," I said firmly.
Matt sighed. "Ma'am, please. Rocky is 14. He has arthritis, needs heart pills, and sometimes has accidents. We don't think he’ll make it through the winter. You don’t want that heartbreak."
"That is exactly why I want him," I replied.
Matt looked confused.
"You talked about statistics, young man," I said, leaning on his desk. "You're afraid I'll die before the dog. But look at Rocky. He doesn't need someone to throw a tennis ball or run with him at the park. He doesn't need someone making plans for ten years from now."
I took a deep breath. "He needs someone who knows what it feels like when bones ache in the rain. He needs someone who walks slow. He needs someone who knows that life ends."
Matt tried to speak, but I kept going.
"You give young dogs to young families, right? And what happens when the dog gets old? When he becomes a 'burden'? They end up back here. I took care of my husband until his last breath. I’m not scared of death, and I’m not scared of vet bills. I am only scared of the silence."
My voice cracked. "Don't give him to me so he lives forever. Give him to me so he doesn't have to die alone in a cold cage. We will walk each other home. That is all I ask."
Silence filled the room. Matt looked at me, then at Rocky’s file—the one destined for the "hopeless" pile.
Without a word, he grabbed a pen and signed the release.
"He only eats wet food," Matt said, his voice thick, avoiding eye contact. "And the pills... you have to hide them in a piece of hot dog or cheese, or he'll spit them out."
"I always have cheese in the fridge," I smiled.
When Matt handed me the leash, he squeezed my hand. "Take care of him, Eleanor."
The walk to the parking lot was slow. The wind blew through my coat and Rocky’s fur. He didn't pull. He shuffled right beside me, matching my rhythm perfectly. When I helped him into the back of my old Buick, he licked my hand.
Tonight, Rocky is sleeping on the expensive Persian rug I used to keep spotless for guests. I don't care about the rug anymore. He is snoring softly. Outside, the fog is rolling in, but inside, it is warm.
People on Facebook call me a hero. But they are wrong.
When I look into his cloudy eyes, I know the truth. Rocky didn't need me to survive. He needed me to find peace. And me?
I learned that life isn't over just because the sun is setting. We are just two old souls who decided the last part of the road shouldn't be lonely.
And when the time comes—for him or for me—we won't be alone. That is the best contract I ever signed. 🐾❤️

12/15/2025

Eleven months of waiting by the door, of wagging her tail when they came home, of loving a little girl who once held her gently.
But one thing about her was “different.” Her eyes were not the same color. And that was enough.
The owner said they were scared.
They said their 3-year-old daughter was scared to look at her eyes. So today, Dec 14, 2025, they decided she no longer belonged.
At the shelter, she stood quietly.
No barking. No anger. Just confusion.
When they turned to leave, she followed them with her eyes — one blue, one brown — hoping for a last look, a last touch, a last moment of love. But they didn’t turn back. Not even once.
She didn’t understand what she did wrong.
We saw her standing there, heartbroken but still gentle.
And we knew — she didn’t need to change. The world just needed to change for her.
Today, we took her into our care.
Today, her story did not end — it began again.
Those different-colored eyes are not something to fear. They are something rare. Something beautiful.
Something that will one day look at a family who sees her for who she truly is — innocent, loyal, and full of love.
She was abandoned for being different. But she will be loved because she is different.

12/15/2025

To the as***le that dumped these dogs off right in front of me, I hope you burn in fu***ng hell.

I still can’t wrap my head around how someone could do this. Right there on the side of the road, in the rain, you abandoned two beautiful huskies like they were nothing. No collar. No note. Just confusion, fear, and shaking bodies pressed together for comfort.

These weren’t strays. You could see it in their eyes — they were waiting for you to come back. Waiting, while cars flew by inches from them. Waiting while they got soaked and terrified. You had every option: a shelter, a rescue, a vet clinic. Instead, you chose the cruelest one.

It took hours. Slow movements. Food placed gently on the ground. Soft voices. Patience. Fear slowly turning into trust. And in the middle of all that chaos, an incredible woman pulled over with a bag of dog food and helped me bring them to safety. I tried to give her money — she refused and said, “Just make sure they get a real home.”

That stuck with me.

Because they will.
They’re safe now. Dry. Warm. Curled up together on a soft blanket in the back seat — probably the first real comfort they’ve had in a long time. No rain. No fear. Just rest.

I have the resources, the time, and the love to make sure these two huskies never experience that kind of cruelty again. They deserve stability. They deserve kindness. They deserve a future where they’re never treated like disposable trash.

To the person who dumped them: you failed them.
But to the stranger who stopped to help, and to everyone who still chooses compassion — thank you for reminding me that humanity isn’t completely lost.

These dogs didn’t deserve that.
No animal does.
And honestly… humanity really needs a reset. 🐺🤍

12/15/2025

“Christmas cookies? No, I haven’t seen them.”

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