Memes for chEFF

GLAMIS WEATHER
Peace

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I drove three hours to a small ranch outside Amarillo, Texas, planning to write a simple human-interest story about the woman locals jokingly called "the retirement home for Boxer dogs."
The assignment was supposed to be easy.
A few interviews.
A few photos.
Six hundred words about a woman who spent her savings caring for unwanted senior Boxer dogs.
Instead, I ended up throwing away every question I'd prepared before I even knocked on her front door.
Because at 5:45 in the morning, while sitting in my rental car waiting for enough daylight to take photographs, I saw something I still think about years later.
An elderly Boxer dog was lying in the middle of her driveway.
A large, brown-and-white Boxer dog named Walter.
His face was completely gray with age.
His hips looked stiff.
One ear drooped lower than the other.
And surrounding him were eleven other senior Boxer dogs.
Not fighting.
Not playing.
Not barking.
Just sitting.
Quietly.
Patiently.
Watching him.
At first, I thought something was wrong.
I watched for several seconds before realizing Walter wasn't injured.
He was simply sleeping.
The other Boxer dogs had gathered around him like silent guardians.
Some sat near his head.
Others rested several feet away.
One elderly Boxer dog lay beside him with her chin touching his paw.
No one moved.
No one disturbed him.
It looked less like a group of dogs and more like a family keeping watch over their grandfather.
That was the moment I knew this story wasn't going to be what I expected.
 
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