Honor: 9 [ Give / Take ]
4 entries this month
Strength and Stubbornness
17:25 Aug 24 2025
Times Read: 245
It amazes me how far she’s come. The frail little girl who once fought simply to stand is now filling out her frame, growing stronger each day, her body shaping into the unmistakable power of a Rottweiler with the stubborn, unyielding presence of Pitbull blood mixed in. Where once I worried she might not have the strength to survive, now I find myself bracing for the force of her determination in every step.
We’ve started obedience training, and while she learns quickly, she has made it very clear that she has her own way of doing things. When I tell her to sit, she sits - but not before giving me that long, measured look, as if deciding whether my request meets her standards. On good days she complies immediately, eager for the praise. On others, she huffs out a sigh, plants her paws firmly, and argues her case in the form of low grumbles, barks, or even that almost comical whine of protest that sounds far too opinionated for a puppy her age.
But that’s her spirit. Headstrong. Willful. Unapologetically stubborn. And though it can test my patience, I can’t help but admire it. It’s the same fire that carried her through the sickness, the same spark that told parvo “not today.” Her defiance is not ignorance - it’s intelligence. She knows what I’m asking. She just wants the final word before she agrees to it.
And when she does give in, it’s never half-hearted. She sits with pride, comes bounding when called, her tail wagging like a banner of victory. She knows she’s earned the praise, and in her eyes there’s no question that she worked with me, not under me.
It’s a strange balance, this training. Some days it feels like I’m teaching her, but more often than not, I think she’s teaching me. Patience. Consistency. The reminder that growth takes time, and that a strong will isn’t something to break, but to shape.
She’s no longer just the fragile pup I carried into safety. She’s becoming something formidable - broad, strong, spirited. A presence that demands notice. But at the same time, she’s still the one who curls against me at night, who sprawls across the bed with no concept of space, who tilts her head with curiosity at every sound, and who insists - always - that her voice be heard.
She is stubborn. She is loud. She is strong.
And I wouldn’t change a single thing...
... Well maybe the noise a bit -chuckles softly-
The First Sparks of Joy
15:46 Aug 17 2025
Times Read: 291
Odd how quickly the tone of a home can change. Just days ago, everything felt cautious - each sound she made, every shift in her breathing, carried weight. I watched her constantly, searching for signs of struggle, as if my vigilance alone could keep her tethered to this world. But now, there’s something new filling the space. Something lighter.
Today, for the first time, I saw a glimpse of who she is beyond the sickness. A spark. A stubbornness. She picked up one of the old toys tucked in the corner - an object far too big for her still-recovering frame and she dragged it across the floor with determination. It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t fast, but it was hers. And in that small act, I saw life reclaiming her piece by piece.
The medicine still lines the counter, the reminders of where she began still ever-present, but her energy seems to defy it now. She eats more eagerly, her tail wags more often, and sometimes when she looks at me, it isn’t with fear or exhaustion - it’s with curiosity. As if she’s starting to wonder who I am, this figure who hovers over her day and night, speaking soft words she cannot understand but seems to feel all the same.
I find myself smiling more than I expected. It’s subtle, almost reluctant, but it happens when I watch her attempt something too ambitious for her size, or when she stumbles and stubbornly tries again. I never asked for her, never planned for her, but she has carved herself into my routine as though it was always meant to be.
Evenings are different now, too. Where she once curled tightly against me, conserving every ounce of strength, she now sprawls her little body stretched out as though finally claiming comfort instead of merely surviving it. I read aloud as I often do, the cadence of my voice rising above the quiet hum of the night, and though she drifts in and out of sleep, she no longer looks fragile when she does. She looks safe.
I think about how close she came to never having this. To never being seen. And it makes every small moment - a bite of food eaten without hesitation, a playful paw against my hand, the steady rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps beside me... feel like a victory.
She is no longer just fighting to live. She is beginning to live.
A New Rhythm in the House
13:33 Aug 13 2025
Times Read: 322
It’s remarkable how a life can fit itself into yours so quickly - how a presence that was once foreign now moves as if it’s always been here. Just a week ago, she was a fragile little thing, shivering in the chill of an unfamiliar world, her body battling an illness that sought to end her story before it could truly begin. I remember the weight of that morning - the way her eyes held both fear and resignation, the quiet understanding that she had already endured more than her share.
Now, she walks the rooms of this place like she owns them, her small paws tapping against the floor in soft, measured beats. It’s a rhythm I find myself unconsciously following, as though my day now dances to her steps. Mornings are different. There’s no slow drift into the day anymore; there’s a reason to rise, to check on her, to be sure her tail is still wagging and her eyes still bright. I prepare her medicine before my own coffee, my hands moving with a practiced ease that would have felt alien only days ago.
The sickness still lingers in small ways - she tires quickly, she eats carefully - but her spirit seems determined to outrun it. She’s learned where I sit to read, curling herself near enough to feel the warmth of my presence, and she waits patiently when I write, her head resting on her paws as though she understands that these quiet rituals are part of who I am. In return, I find myself watching her as much as I watch the page. Every twitch of her ear, every slow blink, feels like a promise that she’s still here, still fighting, still choosing to stay.
There’s something grounding about it. Life has a way of slipping into monotony - days blending, the hours too quiet - but she has broken that cycle without even trying. She requires my attention, my time, my care. She demands that I be present, even when my thoughts would rather drift elsewhere. And in that presence, I find something I didn’t realize I’d been missing.
I can’t help but think about how close she came to never having this chance. How easy it is for a story to be cut short, forgotten before it’s truly begun. But fate - if that’s what we call it - decided otherwise. She is here now, and she is mine. Or perhaps, I am hers.
Evenings are my favorite. When the day’s pace slows and the house grows quiet, she’ll curl up beside me, her breathing steady, her warmth radiating against my side. Sometimes I’ll read aloud, the sound of my voice mingling with the low hum of the room, and though she doesn’t understand the words, she seems to understand the feeling behind them. There’s comfort in that - the kind that doesn’t need translation.
She has not just joined my home; she’s become part of its foundation. I didn’t plan for her, but then again, some of the most important parts of life aren’t planned at all. She arrived as a challenge, a fragile thing to protect, and now she’s a constant. A reminder that even in the quietest corners of life, something unexpected can arrive and change everything.
And I will protect her. Always.
Left, but Not Lost
16:48 Aug 09 2025
Times Read: 372
They left her to die.
No note. No reason. Just a fragile little body left behind as if she were nothing more than a burden to be discarded. It was early Friday morning when I found her - shaking, confused, too young to understand that the hands that once held her had now let go.
Her eyes told the story before the vet ever spoke. Dull, tired, almost resigned. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, only that something deep inside was pulling her under. The diagnosis came quickly. Parvo.
If you’ve ever heard that word, you know what it carries. It’s a thief of life, swift and merciless. More often than not, it wins. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel that cold weight settle in my chest when I heard it. But I looked at her - this tiny, trembling creature who had already been thrown away once and I knew I couldn’t let that be the end of her story.
The treatments began immediately. Injections. Fluids. Medicine. The kind of care that demands both vigilance and hope, even when hope feels foolish. She was so small in my arms, but inside her was something unyielding. She didn’t whimper. She didn’t quit. She fought... hour after hour, day after day.
And then… she started to turn the tide.
Her eyes began to brighten. Her steps grew stronger. She ate. She drank. She lived. With every small victory, the shadow of that diagnosis retreated a little further.
Now, she’s here - not as the sick, abandoned pup I found that morning, but as her own being. She explores the corners of her new home with a tail that wags more each day. She’s cautious, but not broken. She’s learning that hands can hold without letting go.
She’s not just surviving. She’s becoming.
And in the quiet moments, when she curls against me and sleeps without fear, I realize that she’s no longer just a rescue. She’s family.
Whoever left her behind tried to write her ending. But they underestimated her will - and they underestimated mine.
She was left, but she was not lost.
Welcome Home Lady de Winter
COMMENTS
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LunarTides
18:36 Aug 24 2025
☺️