Every morning I’d storm back from the garden, frustrated and muttering under my breath. Carrots gnawed down to stubs. Lettuce yanked from the soil. A bean vine bitten clean through. I’d even gone as far as setting up a motion-sensor light and a trail camera, sure I’d catch whatever was sneaking in. I was ready…
Every morning I’d storm back from the garden, frustrated and muttering under my breath. Carrots gnawed down to stubs. Lettuce yanked from the soil. A bean vine bitten clean through. I’d even gone as far as setting up a motion-sensor light and a trail camera, sure I’d catch whatever was sneaking in. I was ready to spot raccoons, maybe a fox, even a brazen deer. What I wasn’t ready for—what never crossed my mind—was the truth. And when it came, it shattered me… and somehow put me back together.
It all began when Runa didn’t come in for breakfast.
Runa’s never been the clingy type. She’s part shepherd, but it’s her spirit that stands out—fiercely independent, stubborn, a little untamed. Even as a pup, she’d sleep under the porch in a storm, refusing to come inside no matter how hard the rain fell. But after her last litter didn’t make it, something in her changed. She stopped playing. Stopped chasing birds or barking at the wind. Mostly, she just slept. She’d slip away to the barn at night and lie there in the silence, like she was trying to disappear.
That morning, I figured she’d done just that—tuned out the world and ignored my calls from the porch. But something didn’t sit right. A gut feeling, maybe. Or guilt—because I hadn’t exactly been gentle with her lately, too caught up fixing fences and blaming phantom foxes for my ruined garden. So I grabbed a biscuit from the jar, pulled on my boots, and headed out.
