Four days ago I agreed to foster a dog just released from a puppy mill. Today, four long days later, I’ll tell you it’s not a pretty picture. Juno. She is one and a half. She has NEVER been outside of a plastic crate. She knows nothing about outside. Or inside. Or anything else.
I’m not going into why I decided to foster–but I am examining my motivation closely. All that matters right now is that I’m in this situations, right now right here, with a very wounded, frightened, anxious scared creature. Until last night, she paced. Constantly. Non-stop. Back and forth. Room to room. Skittish as a deer. When we would meet, her feet would spin out on the hardwood. A blur of panicked flight or fight trying to about face and get away. Keeping my back to her helped. Crawling on the floor around her helped a little. She seems desperate to trust and starved for love. Wants it. But just can’t believe it’s possible. Lunges at my hand, a blur of a tongue kiss, and then she’s gone. Hit and run bonding on her part. And it’s all going to happen on her time table. Here she is. This is the view I get most often:
Hope and I were in the garden this morning. I cannot let Juno out just yet. The world is too big. Too scary for her. Too overwhelming. But she missed us. Barked when we came in. Sitting on the floor, I asked her to come. Hope makes that hard for her to do.
But Juno came a bit closer. Quick kiss. Then gone. Last night while I was flat on the floor trying to convince her I was just a bigger version of herself, she came closer. Not close enough to pet, but closer. She sat. Her eyes started drooping. They closed. And flew open again in alarm. She has not slept. But now, look. This is a miracle:
I’ve got to be very quiet. The slightest noise causes her to recoil. Jump. Become vigilant. The crates belong to Brother Wolf Animal Rescue. They’ll be returned at some point. But right now they’re trying to remind me of something. Something like “fencing in or fencing out?” I’m not sure. And this is the view from the room where I sit right now.
The garden sits up on a hill behind this house. Every week, Dirt Devas come and work in it with me. They bring things. Wonderful energy. Joy. Food scraps for the compost. Horse manure–bags and bags. Raspberry starts:
During the week–I putter–anticipate needs like this low “Hope Fence” to protect the herb patch– tend the seedlings. Water. Watch.
But on the weekend I need to be prepared because the Dirt Devas want to work–and they work hard. Yesterday holes were dug for tomatoes. Deep holes. Dirt mixed with well-aged manure. My next door neighbor loaned us “water walls.” Plastic sleeves that have channels which can be filled with water–passive solar. He said we can set out the tomatoes now–it’s very early–but he swears he grew tomtoes in January–in Illinois–using these water walls.
preparation for the winter squash bed
turnips planted 3rd Saturday in March. Waning moon. Frigid cold snap followed.
last year’s woad,
this year’s red bud,
Neither any where near finished. Hardly begun. Because right now…just for now… just until… there are other things . . . .