The Ones Who Weren’t Mine
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These are mixed memories from when I lived with my aunt and from before that time.
Not every animal I loved was mine.
Some belonged to other people.
Some I only had for a little while.
But that didn’t change what they meant to me.
There was Casper, my grandparents’ old dog.
He barked at everything—loud, stubborn, and full of attitude—but I loved him.
He had that old-dog grumpiness you couldn’t help but smile at, the kind that made him feel more like a cranky grandpa than a pet. But he also had a soft side.
He’d snuggle up beside me, and I’d take him out for walks to use the bathroom, then bring him back inside like it was part of our little routine.
He was steady.
He was there.
And in a childhood that didn’t always feel stable, Casper felt like something I could count on.
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When I lived with Aunt Rebecca, her dogs filled the house with life.
I didn’t really see it as a connection to Sophie. It didn’t bring comfort. If anything, it stung a little. But I did love her. She had her own personality, her own sweetness. We used to horseplay on the bed together, rolling around, tugging at blankets, just being silly. She made me laugh. And in those moments, I wasn't thinking about the past. I was just playing—with a dog who let me feel light again, even for a little while.
Outside, they had two big Labs and a Pit Bull that lived in the yard.
One of the Labs—a female—used to belong to Rebecca’s husband (Luke) back when they were married.
She had puppies once, and I remember crawling under the old house just to find them.
It was dusty, dark, and smelled like old wood and dirt, but I didn’t care.
I’d count the puppies one by one, whisper to them, and stroke their fur if the mama let me.
There was something magical about it—like discovering life tucked into a hidden world.
Those moments made me feel gentle.
Made me feel needed.
And then there was Charlie.
Charlie was funny, loud, and impossible to ignore.
He was a good boy—just a handful.
Every morning, we’d try to sneak out of the yard without him noticing. If he did—oh boy—it became a whole mission.
If we made too much noise, he’d come running full speed down the dirt road after us.
We had to time it right—make it far enough ahead so he’d turn around and go home before reaching the main road.
We didn’t want him to get hurt.
Even though he was frustrating sometimes, we all just wanted to protect him.
But when things were quiet, I’d sit on the porch with him and love on him.
He wasn’t allowed inside, but I stayed with him anyway.
I’d pull what I thought were ‘green ticks’ off his skin. Looking back, I know they were just swollen ticks—but back then, that’s what they looked like to me. No one told me to do it.
It just felt like the right thing—like something he deserved and not to get sick. If I had to check myself for ticks after going into the woods or the fields, it just made sense to do the same for others, including the animals.
One day, all the outside dogs started barking like crazy.
We ran out to see what was happening—and that’s when I saw it:
A massive snapping turtle, right there in the yard.
I’d never seen one that big in my life.
I was fascinated.
It looked ancient, like it came from another world—heavy, slow, but with a power in its jaw you couldn’t ignore. I wasn’t dumb enough to get too close. But I wanted to see it move, see what it would do. I grabbed the end of a wooden stick and nudged it gently.
CRACK.
It bit a good dent into the wood, and I could see the sharp lines of its bite.
That sound stuck with me.
Even something that looks calm can carry danger in its mouth. Bite your finger off like a carrot.
It reminded me to respect the wild things—and to be careful with curiosity.
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I didn’t own these animals.
I didn’t sleep beside them every night or fill their food bowls every morning.
But they were part of me.
Part of my days, my childhood, my memories.
They taught me that love doesn’t have to come with a collar or a title to be real.
That sometimes the animals who weren’t “mine” gave me just as much comfort as the ones who were.
And that even the loud ones, the wild ones, the hard-to-handle ones—
They all deserved to be loved, too.
And I was lucky to love them.
“The righteous care for the needs of their animals.”
—Proverbs 12:10
The bittersweet moments—you will always live in my heart
