My name is Daisy. I’m a six or seven-year-old Golden Retriever mix.  My mom thinks there’s some Wolfhound in me, but neither one of us really knows, and neither one of us really cares.  I am Daisy, and she is Mom, and I have two boys and a bunch of dog and cat sisters.  That’s the important stuff.

As you can see, I have my own couch, too.  My oldest boy thinks it’s his, but we know the real truth.  I’m pretty fond of the other couch, honestly, but this one is my favorite.  When both sides are reclined it’s big enough to hold a full nose-to-tail stretch.

I have a farm with horses and pigs and chickens.  (I really don’t care much for the chickens.  Noisy little buggers.)  I have a dog bed.  I have my own blankets.  I even have my own special, expensive food.  And because I’m such a good girl, I’m pretty much allowed to do whatever I want.  (I can’t say the same for some of my brothers and sisters.)  When it thunders, I’m allowed on the beds or in Mom’s lap.  Nobody yells at me.  Nobody scolds me.  Their hands are gentle, and their kisses are soft.

My house is the perfect place, and when I’m not stretched out on my couch snoozing, I love to go in the truck and visit people and places.

But my life hasn’t always been wonderful.

My mom found me running on the highway in May 2016.  I wasn’t running from the storm that was coming in.  I’d been dumped out in it, and I was afraid of thunder.  Mom figured out pretty quickly that I had been dumped just a little while before I darted in front of her truck.  Probably when my owners were headed to work. Mom and I don’t know why they didn’t want me.

I was a little skinny.  The collar I had on I’d worn for years and it was nearly worn out.  I had a sore on my knee.  I had a raging ear infection.  And I was older.  And I had fleas.  And ticks.  I’d also been shot, although there was no visible wound.  An X-Ray later revealed the BB lodged between my ribs.

Mom didn’t hesitate to throw me in the truck, even though the boys would be a little late for school.  She took me home with her and fed me and introduced me to the rest of the family.  I made it clear I was too dignified to suffer through the nose-in-tail greetings and promptly snapped at everyone.  But even the big Newfie and the even bigger St. Bernard seemed to realize I was under stress and left me alone.

I slept for two days straight almost.  It took me a full day to be brave enough to go outside and potty.  I didn’t want to leave my new mom’s side, and so she took me everywhere, not wanting me to be alone and scared anymore.  After the first day, I decided I liked my new name and to answer to it.

Two days later, the itching from the fleas stopped and the ticks died.  The wound on my knee began to heal.  Four days later, I met Dr. Aaron who fixed my sore ear.  He also diagnosed me with cancer.  I’ll tell you more about that later.

Mom took me back home.  Even with my illness, she didn’t turn me out.  My food didn’t stop.  Nobody pushed me away in the storms.  Nobody left me outside alone.  I love my home.  I love my boys.  I love my mom.  And I know this time, I will only leave when God calls me home to watch over my family from above.