Each morning, I’d go out to inspect the garden and return seething. Carrot tops were nibbled, lettuce yanked out by the roots, and bean vines snapped in half. I’d even set up a motion-activated light and a trail cam, certain that catching the culprit red-handed would be enough to send it packing. I braced myself for raccoons, maybe a fox, even a deer with an appetite. But what I wasn’t prepared for—what I never could’ve guessed—was that the truth would crack my heart wide open and somehow begin to heal it, all at once.
It began the day Runa skipped breakfast.
Now, Runa’s never been one of those clingy dogs. She’s got some shepherd in her, sure, but it’s always been her fierce, free spirit that defined her—strong-willed, independent, and just a little feral. When she was a pup, she used to sleep under the porch through pounding rain, refusing to come inside no matter how loud the storm. After her last litter didn’t survive, though, something shifted. She stopped chasing after sticks and shadows, stopped wagging her tail at every sound. Mostly, she slept. Sometimes in the barn, wrapped in a kind of silence that made the whole world feel distant.
That morning, I assumed she was back there again, ignoring my calls from the porch. But something felt wrong. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was guilt—I hadn’t exactly been gentle with her lately, too busy mending fences and hunting down ghostly garden raiders. Either way, I grabbed a biscuit from the jar, pulled on my boots, and made for the barn.
Inside, the stillness was thick. Sunlight streamed through the slats in narrow beams, catching motes of dust in the air. The usual smells—hay, old leather, motor oil—clung to the walls. But there was another sound, faint and unfamiliar. I stepped carefully past the hay bales, crouching by a stack of crates we hadn’t touched in months.
There it was again.
A soft, broken whimper.
I leaned down, pulse quickening, and peeked behind the crates. And there she was—Runa, curled around something, every muscle taut and alert. I whispered her name, half expecting her to growl or dart away. But she didn’t. She looked up, meeting my eyes with a gaze so full of something raw—grief, maybe. Or sorrow.
Then I saw them.
Two tiny shapes tucked between her front legs. At first, I assumed they were pups—maybe abandoned, and she’d taken them in. But no. They were baby rabbits. Fragile. Newborn. Eyes still shut. Breathing shallow and slow.
And Runa was nursing them.
I froze. Didn’t speak. Just knelt there, staring, trying to process what I was seeing. This dog—my dog—the same one who used to lose her mind over squirrels—was gently tending to these baby bunnies like they were her own.