I am seventy-five years old, born and raised in Tennessee, and over the years I developed a quiet habit of holding on to what others were too quick to throw away.
It was never a grand mission. It simply became part of who I was, little by little, one fragile life at a time.
When I was a girl, it started with injured birds I found near the creek. I would cup them gently in my hands, doing whatever small thing I could. Even then, I felt that kindness—no matter how small—mattered.
After my husband and I bought our modest home, that same instinct shifted to stray cats. Thin, nervous creatures who lingered on the porch eventually found a permanent place inside. And when my husband passed, the silence in that house grew heavy and sharp. That’s when the dogs came into my life.
