06/06/2025
Every morning, I’d head out to check the garden—and come back fuming. Nibbled carrots. Uprooted lettuce. A bean vine chewed clean through. I even installed a motion-activated light and a trail cam, convinced that if I could catch the sneaky thief in the act, I could scare it off for good. I was prepared for raccoons, foxes, maybe even a hungry deer. What I wasn’t prepared for—what never crossed my mind—was that the truth would break my heart and rebuild it all in one breath. It started the morning Runa didn’t show up for breakfast. Runa’s never been the clingy type. There’s some shepherd in her, sure, but it’s her spirit that’s always stood out—independent, strong-willed, a little wild. As a pup, she used to curl up under the porch and refuse to come inside, even in pouring rain. After her last litter didn’t survive, something in her changed. She stopped chasing shadows, stopped playing fetch. Mostly, she slept. Sometimes she’d spend whole nights in the barn, lying silent, like the world had nothing left for her. That morning, I figured she was out there again—ignoring my calls, sleeping through the noise. But something felt off. Maybe it was instinct. Or guilt—I hadn’t exactly been patient with her lately, too caught up fixing fences and chasing imaginary foxes. So I grabbed a biscuit from the jar, pulled on my boots, and headed out to the barn. Inside, everything was quiet. Dust drifted through the early sunlight breaking between the wooden slats. The familiar smells of hay, old tools, and motor oil wrapped around me. But there was something else. A faint sound I couldn’t place—soft, almost too soft. I stepped around the hay bales and crouched by the crate pile we hadn’t touched since spring. There it was again. A low, aching whimper. I leaned in and peered behind the crates. There she was—Runa, curled protectively around something, her body tight and still, coiled like a spring. I whispered her name, afraid she’d bolt or bare her teeth. But she didn’t. She just looked up with those amber eyes, full of something deep—fear, maybe. Or sorrow. Then I saw them. Two tiny shapes nestled against her. At first, I thought they were puppies. Maybe someone had dumped a litter and she found them. But no—these were baby rabbits. Fragile. Eyes still closed. Barely breathing. And Runa was nursing them. I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. I just stared, trying to process it. My dog—the same one who used to bark herself hoarse at squirrels—was now gently licking the downy fur of two orphaned bunnies like they were her own. It made no sense. Then I caught a flash of red behind the crates. I thought it was a fox at first. I moved closer, heart pounding, and carefully slid one of the crates aside. What I saw was worse.... (continue reading in the 1st comment)
