I’d been blaming the foxes.
For weeks, something had been stealing vegetables from the edge of the garden—perfectly nibbled carrots, overturned lettuce, even a snapped bean vine. I was setting up traps and muttering curses every morning, convinced we had a clever little thief living in the woods behind the shed.
Turns out, I was half right.
It wasn’t until I went looking for my dog, Runa, that I found the truth.
She hadn’t come in for breakfast. Unusual, but not unheard of—she was fiercely independent, especially since her last litter didn’t survive. I figured she was probably sleeping in the barn again, curled under the old straw bales like she sometimes did when the world got too loud.
But when I pushed the barn door open, I heard the faintest rustling behind the crates.
And then… a sound. Not barking. Not growling.
Whimpering.
I crouched down, heart kicking, and there she was—Runa, hunched low and still, with two tiny baby rabbits tucked between her paws. They were so small they barely looked real. Eyes closed, breathing slow. She wasn’t hurting them.
She was nurturing them.
Like they were her own.
And maybe they were—at least now. She glanced up at me with those wide amber eyes, protective but pleading. I didn’t say a word. I just sat beside her, trying to understand how a dog who’d lost her own babies… had somehow found these instead.
But when I leaned in closer to check the bunnies, something caught my eye behind the crate.
A trail of fur. A flash of red. And suddenly, I realized
it wasn’t just rabbits she’d been hiding.
Behind the crate, nestled in a torn feed sack, were more babies. But not rabbits this time. Two kittens—scrawny, trembling, eyes just starting to open. My brain tried to make sense of it. Rabbits and kittens? What in the world was going on?
I backed up a little and just watched. Runa didn’t flinch. She laid her head down gently beside one of the bunnies and nudged it closer to her belly, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she’d chosen this.
The kittens must’ve belonged to a stray that’d been lurking around lately—a skittish tabby I’d only seen twice near the compost heap. I remember trying to coax her with tuna and being totally ignored. And the rabbits? Who knew. Maybe their mother had been killed, or maybe they’d wandered off and just gotten lucky.
But it was Runa who had found them. Runa who had taken them in. Fed them. Kept them warm. Protected them.
I felt my throat tighten as I realized the vegetables in the garden—the ones I blamed on foxes—had probably been her. Bringing food to the babies. Or maybe even feeding the stray mother, if she was still alive somewhere out there.
All this time, I’d been setting traps.
I stood there in the barn a long time that morning, not even caring that my knees were getting stiff from crouching. I just watched her. Watched the little chest of each animal rise and fall with the rhythm of sleep. And I thought about loss. About how animals grieve, too.
Runa had been a shell after losing her pups last spring. I tried everything—walks, toys, extra affection—but she was different. Distant. Quiet. Like something inside her had gone dim. But this… this was the first time I’d seen that spark again. The gentleness in her, the instinct. The love.
Over the next few days, I made the barn into a little nursery. Clean towels, water, a soft light bulb hung from a beam. I didn’t touch the babies—didn’t want to mess with whatever magic was happening—but I brought Runa boiled chicken and fresh water, and I started planting a separate corner of vegetables just for her secret stash.
A week later, I saw the stray again. She was thinner, slower. This time, when I sat on the porch and left out some salmon, she came close. Not all the way, but enough. I named her Iska, after a river my grandmother used to tell stories about. Something about the name felt calming.
Eventually, Iska followed Runa back to the barn. I watched them from the window. They didn’t fight. They didn’t even sniff each other. They just… existed, side by side, while the babies stirred between them. I don’t know what kind of agreement they had, but it worked.
And me? I just tried to stay out of the way and not mess it up.
It’s funny, the things we think we’re in control of. I thought I was doing Runa a favor, letting her heal in her own time. But she didn’t need me to fix her. She needed to give. To love again. And when the world didn’t give her that chance, she carved it out herself—with creatures that shouldn’t even get along.
Weeks turned to months. The bunnies grew strong and eventually hopped off on their own. The kittens, I managed to find homes for—after a full round of vet visits and a very chaotic but cute photo shoot. Iska stopped disappearing. She took to curling up near the porch swing during the evenings, close enough to see us, far enough to keep her independence.
And Runa? She was Runa again. Playful. Curious. Still a little bossy, especially when it came to food, but full of energy in that way dogs get when they feel needed.
It turns out, healing doesn’t always look like silence and time. Sometimes it looks like messes and stolen vegetables and a half-wild barn full of fur and love.
And sometimes the heart breaks just to make room for more.
If you’ve ever felt like you were running on empty, like you had nothing left to give—remember Runa. Remember how love found her again, even when she wasn’t looking.
Animals are wiser than we give them credit for.
So maybe we stop trying to “fix” broken hearts… and start giving them something to care for instead.
Thanks for reading. If this touched you in any way, feel free to share it or give it a like. You never know who might need a little reminder that healing comes in all shapes and sizes. 🐾💛
