Her name is Zoe, and she doesn’t trust.
She has a crooked smile. You can’t tell until she bares her teeth, what is left of them. I was told she lived with a street man who kicked her so hard one day it shattered her jaw and never healed.
Her name is Zoe, and she has lived a life I did not know existed.
Her bottom teeth are missing, filed off. The best guess is, when she was young they sawed off her teeth and chained her to something and allowed fighting dogs to up their courage by repeatedly attacking another who could not fight back. She had no teeth. She is lucky to have lived.
Her name is Zoe, and she is afraid.
She is half wolf and half Malamute…a beauty of ancient times. Her 90 pounds looks like it can take care of itself. She’ll sit for a bone, but she’s not sure, even if you talk real sweet and give her treats and dinner and take her for walks. She has 5 years of living what is horrid to most and unimaginable. It is unimaginable.
Her name is Zoe, and when she is happy her tongue flops to the side.
She has had many years of pain and many years of happiness. She loves you when she knows you and just wants to be scratched behind her ears. She has walked through a life of liminality, thrusted to the threshold by no choice of her own. Remaining when she was tied, running when she was free. She is the creature who hunts and is hunted. She is always walking inbetween.
Her name is Zoe, and she reminds me that even the toughest, most beautiful can have ugly terrifying pasts.
She’ll pull you down the path, stopping to sniff and looking back to make sure you too know it’s a good smelling spot. When strangers come close, her body tenses. I hold the leash tighter because I don’t know what she’ll do if a strange man tries to touch her. Many hands have hit her with intention to break her body, tied her with intention to break her spirit. They forgot that she is a being completely on her own. Or maybe they knew and needed something more helpless to make themelves feel strong. If her paws allowed, her stories would be read by many, her journeys traveled by those who are also walking a path between forgetting and remembering.
Her name is Zoe, and she has healed (mostly).
You never know what is left over in the places of the heart. Sometimes you can follow its lineage up into the eyes. Sometimes she looks right at you. Sometimes she looks away.
Her name is Zoe, and she takes full joy in little things.
Sniffing a tree, doing tricks for a treat, being so happy to be rubbed under her belly. She has not forgotten. Memories of scars don’t fade completely. But she crookedly smiles and her eyes relax when she sniffs the scent in the wind.
Have you walked your SheWolf lately?