I lost one of my little rescue puppies last night. I had her 4 years and 28 days. I was too shocked to cry last night, but the tears have found their way out today.
She came with another puppy from the same horrible puppy mill as a package deal. I couldn't adopt in my area, so I looked in the Dallas area and was prepared to go get them. When the lady saw where I was from, she almost filed me away until she saw a special note that I promised to raise them as Cowboy fans even though I'm in Saint's territory. It amused her and she contacted me. She was so wonderful and appreciated my interest. They'd been up for adoption for months without interest. After she picked me to take them, other's started showing interest.
The lady drove to my house to deliver my babies and paid the adoption fee for me. To this day she calls me and my puppies her success story. I still have to tell her. I wasn't prepared for that or finding out how badly they'd been abused. I'd stretch my hand out to pat them and they'd withdraw like they were about to be hit. They didn't know how to be loved. It took over half the time I'd had them to open up and show some trust. I haven't placed demands on them and tried to be as peaceful and loveable as I could be. A home with clean water and fresh food. She had no teeth, so I cut her food to be easier to swallow.
I'd gotten them as adults and they were given temporary names until adopted. I named them (Yorkies) after Dan Bailey and Cole Beasley. Bailey stuck, but Beasley didn't. She was so sweet that I named her Mommaw after my grandmothers. I know I'm rambling and apologize for it. I'm trying to get myself together enough to turn full attention to Bailey so she doesn't pull a Where The Red Fern Grows on me.
Thanks for taking time for my story. It may not make sense, but I can't see it clearly right now.