After a month without a raindrop, it looked like history would repeat itself prolonging the drought. Instead, we are graced with another pounding of rain and snow. Thankfully, in our area, the rain and winds are not as torrential as late December/early January…just a cold, heavy soak in the valley. But for the first time that I can remember, the Sutter Buttes to the west are covered in snow.
Not technically a butte or mountain range, the volcanic lava domes climb only 2,122 feet at their highest point. But snow – visible from our rescue – is very rare. This circular complex rises above the flat plains of the Sacramento Valley. Before levees and dams were built to contain the rivers and spring run-off, the Valley would become a flooded inland sea. The Buttes became an island refuge for California tribes, settlers, and wildlife.
Happily, the freezing temperatures have remained at higher levels (good for holding the record snowpack in place!). Down in the valley, the fruit trees are in bloom. And the daffodils signal spring. Just one freezing night ahead. Paws crossed.
Taking advantage of a couple days of sunshine, I started the miserable process of removing the Bermuda grass from the garden beds. It is the bane of my existence. There is no eradicating it without chemicals (which I will not do)…so the war begins early and continues all season long despite crowding the plants and heavily mulching the beds. Two beds down. Weeded. Compost added. Mulched. Only twenty more to go. Sigh.
With the storm cutting my work short…the rest will wait.
The guys built handsome, sturdy arbors to replace the leaning towers of aluminum. It meant a heavy cutting back of the climbing roses, but they will be back – and these stunning beauties are made to last.
Snickerdoodle’s puppies are growing quickly. All 11 will be adopted to their new families next weekend. Mom is already away at foster. She put up with them for about seven weeks and then let us know she was done. She is resting, being spoiled, and learning the ways of a house dog.
We’ll be sad to see them go, but litters are a lot of work over almost ten weeks. We’re all grateful to the extra large puppy team that stepped up to help!
Since late December, we have now welcomed 17 adult dogs from the Ohio puppy mills – and we are only one of a wide rescue group. Here area a few of our puppy mill survivors.
Our dogs are experts when it comes to fostering puppies. They welcome them with open paws and are happy to show them the ropes. Our fosters learn lots of helpful things by following their example like potty training; crate training; how to sit, wait, and come; how to share; and most importantly – how to sleep through the night! But there are a few tricks our boys might keep to themselves.
Jackson is the OG. At nearly 15, he quietly administers his private lessons of “don’t mess with the old dog.” There are no growls or snarls involved. He just stares at them, and they get the message. All our foster puppies adore him but know better than to mess with him. Good lesson…well delivered.
Yogi is now eight…I can’t believe it. For many years, he was the foster puppy playmate and self-appointed supervisor. He is very patient and extremely tolerant to a point, issuing kind but firm corrections when needed. He is the first to comfort sick or recovering pups and they all look up to him.
All good…except Yogi is a world-class counter surfer. And puppy see; puppy do. Pretty much any puppy that can reach counters has to unlearn this when they go home. With apologies to their adopters.
Yogi on counterGiant Puppy Milo on counter
Skye – now three – has taken over as the primary puppy playmate. He’s happy to meet everyone and immediately engages the new arrivals in play. It’s great for their socialization and confidence, but Skye sometimes regrets the monsters he unleashes. Skye seriously miscalculates by forgetting three things: 1) puppies have dagger teeth; 2) puppies grow bigger and stronger; and 3) puppies have four times his stamina.
While Yogi is bigger and better able to correct with authority – the puppies just won’t take Skye seriously. They figure turnaround is fair play and he is their play toy. Our four- to five-month-olds are almost as big as Skye who comes screaming for mom when the roughhousing gets too ruff!
Every single puppy in our home learns to get on the furniture. That’s my fault and I proudly own it. These kids have been bounced around. They need comfort, security, and love. Yes…I too contribute to the delinquency of our minors.
Yesterday was our Milo’s going home day. This giant puppy arrived at 15 weeks with ear infections and double entropion – a condition that causes the eyelids to grow inward causing the eyelashes to poke the eye. He goes home following surgery with his eyes now wide open and a clean bill of health
– FINALLY (hopefully) potty trained and ready for adventures.
Of course, on my way home from Milo’s adoption, I got the call that another puppy needed our home for a bit. I turned around and picked him up. Yes…he’s already on the couch. That’s just how we roll around here.
Heaven got a little brighter, and our world, a little dimmer, today. Our beloved Carla McCreary – warrior princess – lost her long battle with cancer. She was part of the fabric of Homeward Bound from the start, rescuing, connecting dogs to humans, and connecting humans to humans to humans to save animal lives.
Fearless, she would go anywhere and to any length to help an animal in need. Respected and trusted by animal advocates in shelters and law enforcement, she ferried dogs from horrible circumstances to us as part of our witness protection program. She wanted to personally provide their freedom rides while reassuring them about better days ahead.
She was the voice of the dogs for as long as I can remember, and probably long before that. Thousands of them. She spoke as them without sugar coating because she knew that there was a match for everyone but the best path to “forever” was through honesty. Her empathy always resonated, and she helped others see into the dogs’ souls, however damaged.
We worked together weekly to get her dog profiles to the website. She would write the bios, then go to chemo. I don’t know how she had the strength to carry on. A couple of months ago, she started asking for assistance. Until then, I knew better than to adjust her words or veer out of my lane. And then, in December, she shared a grim prognosis. She insisted that she wanted to keep writing – and rejoiced in spending the afternoon with her new great grandson. But she could not keep writing. And she did not object when I stepped in.
It looks like it falls to me to channel Carla for the dogs. I will hear her voice as I write, do my best to do her and the dogs justice, and likely steal from her huge volume of tales.
I’m glad that there is no more pain for her. But she leaves behind many broken hearts. I believe she was greeted at the bridge by her beloved husband and a very long line of animals whose lives she made better.
Fly free, dear friend. You will be remembered always.
I thought by leaving before daylight, that I would miss the worst of the wind and rain. I was mistaken. California’s latest deluge – round five – poured down on me as I hurried past wind battered trees and leaning power poles. Weekends bring early morning puppy duty and Mama Snickerdoodle and her rapidly growing brood were waiting. Adorable, right?
Unless you are the mom they constantly seek out!
Eyes and ears are open now and the kids are cruising everywhere. It will be at least two weeks before the yard drains enough to allow them outside. Right now, they would be swimming. Just imagine the poop show we’re in for!
Mother Nature has thrown everything at us…water, wind, hail, and snow in the mountains. We have been incredibly fortunate here compared to the rest of the state. At the low-lying rescue, there is water everywhere, but our buildings have stayed mostly dry. Our pond has become a lake. The chair in this photo is actually attached to a dock. It’s under there somewhere.
We have lost a number of trees, the saddest of which is this huge pine.
And the dogs return a muddy mess every time they go out. They much prefer the puddles and mud to being cooped up all day, but the laundry and baths…oh my!
South of our home, a levee failed in numerous places flooding out three small towns. But most of our region has been spared – especially compared to those on the coast. Receiving three times our rainfall, they are underwater and losing homes and roads to mudslides. We wished for rain. We got it.
The historic park near us has taken a pounding. William Land Park was established more than one hundred years ago. The 238 acre parcel was originally used as “flood spill” – a polite name for sewage overflow. Maybe that’s why the trees grew so well there. These storms have taken a toll. More than 50 trees have been toppled in the park – many of them a century old. Across the city, the estimate is more than 1,000 – dropped to the ground in high winds and saturated soil that is simply too much for the roots to hold on after three years of drought.
It will take months to clear all, leaving a changed landscape.
The good news for our region is that Folsom Lake – our reservoir – has quickly refilled. Our system of improved levees, weirs, and the Yolo Bypass have held…and thanks to the dedicated crews that walk and inspect them every day. The mountains are snow-capped – potentially signaling a decent snow melt this year. The agricultural land around our rescue will absorb this standing water, sending it back to the aquifer…which means hope for the Memorial Garden this summer. And the local egrets are happy! Take your blessings where you can find them.
The unexpected strength and resolve of a country attacked by its hostile neighbor. The awakening of some that they have been had and used – and that the man behind the curtain is no wizard at all but a propped-up clown. Torrential rains and flooding gives rise to the possible retreat of three-year drought.
And an Ohio puppy mill shuttered by family misfortune means freedom and new lives for 45 dogs. If you follow us on social media, you’ve read the story. But here it is for the rest of you.
In December, Homeward Bound was part of a coordinated rescue of 30 dogs – 12 of them pregnant – and 15 puppies. Their freedom rides were courtesy of Golden and Labrador rescues across the country. The request to accommodate a very expectant girl came from our rescue partner in Oregon who took a pregnant mom themselves. Her litter of nine is being hand-fed around the clock as the mother required emergency surgery.
Traveling cross country just before a record cold snap, the trip was harrowing for our mom. A beautiful Goldendoodle, she spent her entire four years of life producing puppies in an Ohio puppy mill.
She arrived at dawn on December 22nd, stressed and terrified – unsure what to make of her indoor accommodations. Warmth, heaping bowls of food, clean water, and soft blankets…these were all new to her. She didn’t have a name, so we chose something appropriate for her breed and the season. We named her Snickerdoodle.
Her labor began the next afternoon. Six hours in, we felt sure the babies’ arrival would not be until morning. But as soon as she had a moment’s privacy, the process began. Snickerdoodle was obviously accustomed to giving birth alone. Life in a puppy mill is a lonely existence.
Monitoring her on a remote camera, our president and birthing mom turned right around and returned to be by her side. By 1AM, she had delivered seven beautiful puppies. Waiting another hour, she felt safe that mom was done. However, when I arrived early the next morning, I found nine puppies. I cleaned and fed her and left her room for about an hour. Upon my return, I counted again: 12! Then I literally caught the last, number 13.
An experienced mom, only the last little one needed some assistance – if only because it was so hard for mom to reach over the other 12. Exhausted, she ate, drank, and slept while the newborn babies created a constant chorus maneuvering for a suckling turn. They were born into a thick blanket of fog.
Two very tiny ones struggled and came home with me for every two-hour feedings. Heartbreakingly, I could not save them. Adversity still followed the others when record rain and hurricane force winds knocked out power forcing their overnight evacuation to our vet clinic that runs, with the kennel, on generator. But mom and the 11 thrive.
A few days later, two more of the breeder girls also came our way. There will be no more litters for these three moms. Each will be carefully placed in loving homes to live long, spoiled lives.
Today, I ordered Dahlias for the 2023 garden. I had about given up on these old-fashioned beauties; not native or usual in our typically drought-tolerant Memorial Garden – but they had always been a special blooming gem in the early years of the garden. Between increasing temperatures and the blazing sun of our Sacramento Valley, the army of snails that quickly gobble up tasty first cotyledon leaves, and failed attempts to overwinter the tubers in our climate, I was sure it was time to throw in the trowel. Then I came across a series of articles about starting Dahlias in pots.
In our region, Dahlias ship in late February. By mid-March last year, I had 20 potted in my backyard where I could keep a close watch out for snails, moisture and drainage needs. By the first week of April, all had sprouted. I began succession planting in mid-April after they grew mature leaves less appealing to the voracious snails. Their new home is in the filtered shade of a tree where they receive full sun from sunrise until midday but are well protected from the blazing afternoon sky. I fed them monthly with 10/10/10 organic fertilizer and they get admitted special treatment with an extra drink when the weather turns too hot. The result: they bloomed all summer and into November except for ungodly heat waves in August and September.
A garden is always a series of losses set against a few triumphs, like life itself.
May Sarton
This week, we celebrated the move of our last three Parvo litter puppies to foster. It is the next-to-last step on their journey to forever homes.
Volunteer Pam B fostering the three recovered pups.
It’s the kind of victory that will sustain us for a long time. Hopefully, we will see them all again in a year for a happy reunion.
While we cared for them, we also welcomed a litter of five Golden pups from a Midwest puppy mill supposedly going out of business. Thankfully, they were all relatively healthy and able to be adopted within a couple of weeks. Another triumph.
Sadly, efforts to secure the breeding pair failed. A great loss. With the economy suffering, we are seeing puppy mills and backyard breeders shedding their puppies at rates not seen since the 2008 recession. Unfortunately, these operations are too easily restarted when the breeding dogs are held.
A few triumphs…set against a series of losses thanks to a network of fellow rescuers who persevere.
Stop the purchase of puppies from puppy mills, the retail stores they sell to, and disreputable breeders, and we can put them all out of business for good. It’s as simple as that.Spread the word.
When the forecast calls for rain in our parched Northern California – I am always a believer. This weekend – it did not disappoint. You can almost hear the trees and plants breathing in the good soak.
However, when it comes to rescue, I have learned to adopt a healthy bit of skepticism – if only to prepare my heart.
Recently, one of our volunteers connected with a woman looking to “rehome” Golden Retriever puppies on Craigslist. In fact, she of course meant to sell them claiming they were an “oops” litter. Our volunteer was surprised to hear back from the woman several weeks later, asking to surrender the pups…ten in total. It was suspicious that they had gone unsold, but, of course, we said ‘yes.’
I was not there the day they were delivered. The photo seemed to reflect that they were bright and alert. Then someone mentioned that one was worrisomely lethargic. My mind immediately went to Parvo. I’ve been through it before.
We isolated them as we do all puppies. My fear was confirmed the next morning when one puppy was rushed to the vet. The heartbreaking decision was made to let her go. In the final stages, Parvo is very painful and it was the kindest thing. The next day – two more were lost.
Parvo is deadly to puppies. Protection requires four rounds of vaccinations which is why we always caution that puppies cannot go to public places – even sidewalks – until fully vaccinated. The mortality rate for puppies is a devastating 80%.
Strict isolation protocols were put in place with a tiny team to watch over the others. We were determined to save the remaining seven. Under guidance from our dedicated vet, we established two isolation areas – one for those showing symptoms (lethargy, vomiting, diarrhea among them) – and a separate space for those without. Our president personally took all shifts for the three in greatest danger – administering their care and watchfully waiting. The other four progressed well, learning what regular access to food meant and quickly gaining weight.
When it was safe, we sent the four to foster and celebrated the day when the three could be released from their separate isolation. They are now on the rebound.
This is where my skepticism creeps in. We try to give people the benefit of the doubt and to be genuinely grateful for the chance to help, but I suspect that the surrenderer knew what she delivered to us. Honesty might have helped us save more.
We offered to spay and neuter her dogs – something she said she wanted to do but could not afford. We sent her education about Parvo and why future litters were likely to suffer the same fate. We never heard back. After a Parvo litter, homes and yards cannot be used for up to a year after complete disinfecting or removal of surfaces. I grieve for her next litter – those that will suffer the same fate and those that go to unsuspecting families destined for heartbreak.
I have no issue with responsible breeders who truly care for their dogs, puppies, and the families that purchase them. But please help spread the word about how to identify them versus backyard or puppy mill breeders who create tragedies like this. This is a resource you can share.
Before I disappeared for nearly a year, I wrote about our foster Ahsoka. The darling Golden Retriever/Great Pyrenees pup is now the giant Lucy who lives a spoiled and happy life with her mom, Susan. Lucy comes back to visit occasionally and has regular play dates with our foster puppies and their shared companion – Skye, our two-year-old boy.
Susan joined our puppy foster team last February by volunteering to foster an entire litter of German Shepherd puppies and their momma, Annie. She is an excellent puppy mama.
In my absence, I did not chronicle this year’s foster puppies. That weighs on me. I love remembering them here. So let’s catch up.
Roxy’s backyard breeder has decided to take advantage of our location. A posted sign offering Golden Retriever puppies has been permanently affixed near our rescue and he routinely sells puppies out of the back of his truck. The man that purchased her made an impulse buy and then surrendered her to us a couple of weeks later. It seems the family was not on board. His English was limited; all he wrote on the surrender contract was “I love her.” It was easy to understand why.
This incredibly gentle girl, now named Indy, found her home with a great family and four young children.
Hank was purchased from a backyard breeder and surrendered shortly after. This giant puppy, nicknamed Hank the Tank, was overwhelming the family cats and small dog with his puppy exuberance and strength.
He found the perfect home with an active couple living at the lake and in the snow. His giant head and drooping eyes have finally grown into his massive body but along with his rapid growth came a devastating diagnosis of cancer – rare at such a young age.
Thankfully, his devoted parents are seeing him through. After surgery and radiation, he is on the home stretch of chemo treatment with a positive prognosis. Paws crossed. He is in my prayers daily.
Mickey was found stray at three months of age traveling with an unrelated Golden. The shelter sent a photo and said he was a Doodle. Note to self: always ask for a photo to scale. Not that I regret the masquerade for one minute!
Affectionate and starved for people attention, this little Terrier mix was not our typical foster, but the golden heart of his traveling companion definitely wore off on him. He fit right in with our pack until he found his forever home with a mom who is always by his side.
Comet came to stay with us to recover from desperately needed FHO (femoral head ostectomy) surgery – something we had been through with our own boy, Skye.
He was in a very big hurry to run, jump and play but first he needed to rebuild muscle through swimming, gradual exercise, and, eventually, controlled play with our dogs. When he started doing zoomie circles in his pen at 5:30 in the morning, we knew he was ready for home.
He is living his best life with his new family at the lake where he puts all those swimming exercises to regular use.
“No one wants that puppy. Give me a hundred bucks and get her out of here.” Found sitting in a crate in her own filth at a puppy mill in the Midwest, Willow was five months old and not destined for good things. The Good Samaritan that found her drove her across the country to California. Willow was completely shut down – frozen at human touch. The woman, realizing she was in over her head, surrendered her to us. I carried her off the transport, into my car, and into our home where she was greeted by our three Goldens. It was exactly what she needed. Within a couple of days, all that fear vanished.
We quickly learned why “no one wants that puppy.” Willow has epilepsy. A low dose of medication has kept the seizures at bay, and she found the perfect home with a woman whose own mother also had seizures. She could not be more loved.
Harley arrived with a heart condition: SAS (subvalvular aortic stenosis) with a serious grade. But you would never know it by the way he runs and plays.
Clinical studies show that the invasive surgery some recommend has no impact on a dog’s long-term outcome. Instead, he will be on a beta-blocker for life. How long will his life be? No one knows. Like those athletes you hear about, his heart may just stop someday. Or – like some dogs we have known – he could live to be 10 with good quality care. The most important thing is a life well-lived, full of fun, adventures, and love. We found that for him.
Mini-Murphy was part of an “unplanned litter” between a Goldendoodle (Golden Retriever/Poodle) and Labradoodle (Labrador Retriever/Poodle). People…there is nothing “unplanned” about an unspayed female dog and an unneutered male dog living together. He was purchased by an older couple (the husband was 81) who quickly realized their decision to bring home a puppy had been directed by their hearts, not their heads. They stated that Murphy is a smart puppy with a good temperament…does normal puppy things…and is delightful and deserves a family that can physically interact with him…”he is the epitome of a joyful, bright, and totally loveable puppy.” They were right about that.
He lives with two active children so they can all get their zoomies out together.
Milo, my foster shadow, was purchased as a gift for a family with six children ages toddler to 16…and another on the way. Needless to say, he spent most of his time in a crate and went outside only on a leash. They knew he deserved better. Despite this less-than-ideal beginning, he proved to be a very well-adjusted puppy who loves dogs, cats, and humans of all ages.
A cuddler who followed me everywhere I went, Milo was especially hard to say goodbye to. He went home with a family and their dog whose hearts needed mending from the loss of another companion. “Now I have two shadows” his new mom wrote. He is where he belongs.
It is always hard to say goodbye to our foster pups – but rewarding to see the joy they bring to others.
So, with apologies to all my 2022 foster kids, we are now caught up.
A couple of weeks ago, I felt encouraged that the collective “we” had finally awoken from a bad dream. For a minute, I thought that common sense and decency had finally prevailed over lies driven by greed, power, and ego. I had hope…something that has been in short supply these past two years and has made it impossible for me to write. It was short-lived.
If the message that was clearly sent was to eschew extremes on either side in favor of compromise and reason, it has gone unheard. The usual suspects are up to their usual tactics while war and climate change rage – threatening to upend our very existence.
Our battles here have seemed too small in comparison. But to those that we can help, I was recently reminded – they are not small at all.
Not to Jelly Bean, whose life was saved by a compassionate animal control officer and was transformed in our care from forgotten and discarded to health and joy.
Not to Dexter, finally freed from life on a chain only to demonstrate the unconditional love and forgiveness of a golden heart.
And not to Willow, the “damaged dog” rescued as a seizure puppy from certain death in a puppy mill to fulfill the years-long search of her new human.
“Where flowers bloom, so does hope.” ~ Lady Bird Johnson
I will look for my hope among the stories of our charges and the flowers that bloom in our Memorial Garden dedicated to them. I will try to write again.
The call said she was a breeder-surrendered puppy with ectopic ureters. I knew what that meant: she leaked pee.
In the past, she was the kind of puppy that Jody would take up to her house – shielding us from possible heartache if the outlook looked uncertain or grim. But Jody is gone, and an eight-week-old pee girl needs to have her bottom kept clean and dry to stave off infection. I knew that. “Where else is she going to go?” I knew the answer. She had to come home with us.
We have fostered a lot of puppies. She was too small for her age. At eight weeks, she should have been pushing 15 pounds; she weighed in at only 11. She had a bacterial and yeast infection already.
I had a dream that first night. I dreamt that she died.
I reached out and touched the hand of time and knew it was not my friend. We waited for the ultrasound appointment but knew that surgery would be at least 4-5 months away – if the condition was repairable. If it wasn’t? I didn’t want to think that far ahead.
I cleared out the living room and dining room so she would be on washable stone floors. Every supply came out – and more. Mops, buckets, washable pee pads, towels, plastic covered beds, sheets, and gates everywhere. I set my office inside and left one covered couch so I could be close by. It was a small world for her, but a happy one. She ruled her domain, and the big dogs allowed it.
She earned many nicknames: Little Miss Puddles, Miss Pee-a-lot, Tinkle Bell, the Terror of Tinkle Town, and more.
She got her bum washed and dried at last four times a day. At night, we put a diaper on her for an hour – careful not to anger the infection we had beat back – and let her run through the rest of the house. She thought that was a magical time.
Our yard has an open pool, so we set up two enclosures for her in the shade. The big dogs joined her. She loved them.
As often as possible, I took her with me to play in the puppy yard at Homeward Bound. She made friends there.
Finally, ultrasound day arrived. We had been so anxiously awaiting it. The news was devastating and unexpected. Yes – she had an ectopic ureter. But she had only one partially functioning kidney and it was dying.
We had to make a quick decision. It was easy. We brought her home to love her. The weeks we thought we would have turned into only a couple of days – and then a rapid night of decline.
The next morning, we set her free.
Someone said she was just not meant to be – a puppy born with so many obstacles. I knew what they meant, but they were wrong. She was meant to be ours for four short weeks of laughter, joy, and tender puppy kisses. Mabel was meant to be loved.
She left an indelible mark on our chewed baseboards, window sills, table legs – and our broken hearts.
We recently took in two little ones…surrendered shortly after they were purchased (for a pretty penny, I might add), because their people decided they either weren’t dog people, or that a puppy was too much work. One approached us about surrender; we were so grateful that they wanted the best for their little boy. The other was talked out of selling the puppy on Craigslist. Thankfully, they agreed.
In both cases, we were just happy to be able to get them to families who understood the commitment that comes with adoption – or purchase – of a dog of any age.
We have an extensive application process and contract, but it got me to wondering what the dogs would put in a canine contract for people if the tables were turned. It might go something like this:
You realize that I am not a shiny penny or an impulsive decision. You have thought through the choice to add someone to your family, and the time and expense that goes with it.
You promise not to treat me like that fancy bike you got that sits in the garage. I am not a toy to be played with for two weeks and forgotten.
You know that neither one of us is perfect. We all come with some baggage. I will try to leave mine behind if you will do the same and we can make a fresh start together.
I promise to be patient with you when you leave things out that could get me in trouble, and you promise to be patient with me when I chew them up. We will both agree that it is better and safer not to do either.
You know that training is a lifelong commitment – and that it is not just for me. You are half the equation. If you do your part, I will do mine.
If you have little humans, you will remember to watch out for them AND for me and you will help to raise us together with respect and kindness.
You realize that I am not a cat. No offense. But I am not happy living a solitary life. I need human contact and friends to be a well-rounded canine.
If you got me as a puppy or youngster, you recognize that I WILL grow up. And you will promise to still love me when I am old and grey or, heaven forbid, sick, injured or disabled – and need you most.
You commit that if – for any reason – you can no longer keep me, that you will not dump me at a shelter, turn me out, or sell me to the highest bidder. You will take as much care in finding me a good, safe and loving home or reputable rescue as I take in being your loyal, trusting companion.
If you agree to the above, by all means…please bring me home. I would like to be yours. All others need not apply. Thank you.
Gardeners don’t fear critters, bugs, disease, or even frosts. The one thing a gardener truly fears is the fate of our gardens after we are gone.
The act of clearing, planning, planting, and nurturing a garden is belief in tomorrow – a love letter to the future. A gardener lives in anticipation of the season ahead and what surprises will spring forward. When you dig and turn that first shovel of dirt, a pact is made – between earth and gardener: I will tame and care for you and, in return, you will care for all who visit here.
Over a decade ago, our rescue’s founder, Jody, put a stake in overgrown ground and declared it a garden. The Homeward Bound Memorial Garden rose from waist-high weeds and thistles and clay to a place of peace and beauty over the next decade. But Jody rarely found time to tend to it. It was too much in view of dogs, volunteers and adopters – making it too easy for her to be interrupted and called away.
Several years ago, in a back corner of the property, Jody and her sister started clearing another piece of overgrown land. They created an oasis of raised beds, an orchard of fruit trees, a she-shed, and even a fire pit. Hidden from view, we all knew that this was Jody’s place of quiet, solitude and restoration. She monitored for emergencies, but rarely answered other calls when working there. Unexpectedly, it served another purpose: it strengthened our team and made us more self-reliant and resilient. It was to be her retirement project.
When she became ill last August, the garden was abandoned. Fruits and vegetables rotted on the vine and ground.
Winds sent beloved pieces of found art sailing. The weeds began a march to reclaim their territory.
It would have broken her heart to see what has become of her labor of love.
I asked permission of her husband to begin the work of rescue before the earth swallowed it back up.
This is a job much bigger than one person. But one can start. I cleared my way through the first stretch of jungle this weekend, digging out thistles, uprooting Johnson grass, freeing trellises and tomato cages from their tangles, and uncovering hidden treasures.
It reminded me of the first months in the Memorial Garden. It reminded me of her.
I will look to build a small team dedicated to its upkeep. In its ample space, we could feed an army of community hungry.
In its restoration, we can send our own love letter.
Gardens For Goldens 