The blog of a tired shelter worker & hobby farmer

I'm a bit late, but June 29th, 2026 marked 2 years since Florence came home. I am not sure of most things. I second-guess, hedge, go back and forth and back and forth around in an endless circle: pros and cons lists, coin tosses.

But I was sure of this: I wanted to raise a puppy. And when I saw her I did know right away she was the one. I still made my careful deliberations and consulted my wise council because that is how I approach everything; especially good things, things I don’t think I’m allowed to have. But I knew she was the one. I was sure of her. I was so sure of her that I already knew her name.

Together with one of my closest friends, we drove around eight hours or so roundtrip to bring her home. She threw up at least twice along the way, carsick and uncertain. But I was sure.

Evelyn wasn’t. Evelyn took about 12 hours to warm up to her – and then she welcomed her like a long lost sister.

Florence.

Goofy, silly, beautiful and sweet, rambunctious and brave, steady and sure when it counts, and everyone’s best friend. Just a couple of days after she came home, I wrote, “It’s so apparent just how much Evelyn & I both needed Florence in our lives.”

My first puppy. Brought home in the midst of grief over losing Hazel, the first dog who was mine and mine alone. I brought her home four months after Hazel passed away and left Evelyn and I in a fog of silence. I worried about doing it at the right time. It was exactly the right time.

Florence. Jumping brave and wild into the creek at the nature preserve, this past spring. Galloping all through the apartment every morning after her potty outing. Carrying her beloved Little Duckie everywhere she goes. Greeting strangers with joy. Running joyously through fields. Sticking to her guns. Teaching me more and more as she grows into who she will be.

She is 2 years old now. 27 months old. That trip to bring her home was 2 years and 2 days ago. She is a good dog: self-possessed, creative, intelligent and also clever, honey-sweet and sometimes troublemaking and always brave, brave, brave.

Florence. Before I knew her, I knew her name. I was sure she was out there. And the day I brought her home – even in the midst of grief – was one of the best days of my life.

Happy (belated) Florenceversary.

The girls at race practice