01/19/2026
I do know what you are saying..the farm has gone in retirement .Where ones loud colored Appsloosa Horses raised their spotted foals snd roamed with the Deer and Fawns that lives in our woods.only one old mare is left, the Deer come out start sudown
To graze in the evening dusk and our 2 retiery Donkeys enjoy the evening sundown. That is all left of a very busy spotted horse farm. No more Fosls roaming with mom !time has moved on and p
PEACE SETTLES OVer THE LAND, kitties go hunting behind the barn and anything left , are the Memories of the mares and foals grazing for their evening snack. And waiting for another day to rsise.... the now old owner and her old dogs slowly moving back to house and calling it another day done and wondering what will tomorrow bring.
After my daughter moved across the country for college, I stopped cooking dinner. What's the point of setting a table for one?
Her bedroom door stayed closed. I couldn't bring myself to open it. The silence in this house became so loud I started leaving the TV on just to fill it.
Everyone said the same thing: "You'll adjust. Give it time."
I gave it time. The adjustment never came.
One afternoon, I found myself driving to the animal shelter. I didn't plan it. I just needed to hear something breathing. Something alive. I told myself I was only looking.
That's when I saw Bobby.
Nine years old. Mixed breed. Mostly deaf. His muzzle had gone white years ago. The card on his kennel said he'd been there eight months. Returned three times. The notes read: Too old. Too much work. Not what we expected.
Bobby wasn't barking. Wasn't pacing. Wasn't trying to sell himself to anyone walking by. He just sat in the corner, staring at nothing, like he'd made peace with being invisible. Like he'd stopped expecting anything good to happen.
I understood that.
I sat down on the cold concrete floor outside his cage. After a long moment, he stood up slowly—his joints weren't what they used to be—and walked over. He pressed his grey face against the chain-link and closed his eyes.
My breath caught.
My daughter used to do that when she was small. She'd climb into my lap and press her forehead against my chest without saying a word. Some things don't need language.
The volunteer appeared behind me. "He's a senior," she said gently, like she was warning me. "We have puppies if you're looking for something easier."
I kept my hand where Bobby could feel it.
"I don't want easy," I said. "I want someone who understands."
That was three months ago.
Now I wake up to the sound of Bobby snoring at 6 a.m. I hear his nails click down the hallway—he always checks to make sure I'm still here. We eat breakfast together. We sit on the porch and watch the birds together. Some days we don't do much at all, and that's enough.
The house isn't empty anymore.
Bobby didn't replace my daughter. Nothing could. But he gave me back my sense of home. He gave me a reason to open the curtains again.
People ask me who rescued who.
I don't think either of us rescued the other. I think two souls who had stopped hoping just happened to find each other at the exact right moment.
And somehow, that was enough.
(Story and photo credit to the rightful owners)
