I don't know their stories

I don't know yours either. Tell a good one

Even the little ones. I don’t know who they are, who was their mama, who dropped them in a box at my gate or how they found themselves looking for water and friends and found a big bowl outside my door.

Why did Suzy live in a stack of tires and have mange and take so long to come inside? Why is Dusty missing top teeth and so sensitive about that left ear. Why does River respond to saying Chocolate with such affection? Why can’t you touch Border on the back despite being found as a puppy. Why is Rocky so attached to me from the first day his mama brought over all her litter pups and he never left, screaming like a vulture if he lost sight of me. Why does Calico guard every tienda door I enter, but never comes inside my house.

Everyone has a history. We carry the misdeeds of our ancestors and think our shame is our own, and our soft underbellies that we’ve curated with our own choices and fears and imaginations. Everyone’s been chased with a broom at some point it seems. Every dog knows the universal bend to pick up a rock exercise and cowers.

But who are these souls?

I live with all these strangers except for the 16 year old terrier Brady the Angry Abuela who has been a Pepper Pot since I found her in Habersham County tied to a tree with a bag of kibble. Squirrel Dog is what the old timers called her. Mountain Feist, emphasis on the Feist(y) she could give a rat’s ass about me emotionally, she’s really just invested in my food provisions. She was a great chicken guardian and watched the ducklings a little too closely and carried a few in her mouth, so gently but they are fragile and I think can stroke out before they break their necks. She used to stack them neatly in the garage.

She herds and runs the show here with all of these found dogs, the street family that likely saved her life. They respect her and if she’s standing in a doorway they will wait and bottleneck up like an interstate exit at rush hour. No passing. She has great purpose now and is up at 5am no matter what and doesn’t go to sleep until the last plate is cleared off the counter. I don’t know why she is the way she is, but she’s been with me for over 15 years so I have no one to blame but myself.

All of these animals have their own souls and mannerisms. There are a few rules in this refuge home but I’m no micromanager. Mostly you can’t lay in the kitchen because I’ll trip over you and I get the left side of the bed, but other than that, their pecking order is their own.

I know who I am.

The Lunch Lady.