BEOWOOF, aka WOOFIE
I am Woofie.
I am a petite goldendoodle, or so they tell me. They tell me lots of things. Like what a good boy I am. And who am I to doubt them? They also say “you can do it” a lot.
I have a lot of best friends. Some cats, some dogs, SOME PEOPLE!
I came from Jackson County, where Gwenda is from. This means I’m 100 percent Appalachian, y’all, no matter how fancy my wardrobe.
I’m Sally! I came from the farm. Sometimes I’m also Sheriff Sally, policing these dingdang cats. I might be part cat, but I’m too big to get up the cat tower or on top of the table these days. It’s very unfair, but I persevere. At least I can go outside and get the ball. Or the frisbee! Because I’m Sally! And I’m happy. Even when I’m barking at other dogs, if you say, “Hug!” I’ll chill out and get a hug. Because I’m Sally!
My name is Izzy. I like outside better than inside. But I like my people better than outside. It’s a dilemma.
I was another accidental mama, dropped off at a shelter which was shocked to learn I was preggers when I started giving birth. Long story short, Woodstock Animal Foundation put me on this sweet dog farm and took care of me and my puppies and then one day these people showed up in one of those awful motorized contraptions but once the ride was over, it was all pretty good. I am queen of the yard.
So I’m cooling my heels in this jail cell in Nelson County Humane Society because the same people who named me Precious also decided to leave me there after FIVE YEARS. You might think this would make me suspicious of humans. I mean, humans deserve it. But not all of them. The joke’s on my original owners, because I live in a much better place and have a much better name now. And I have a cat best friend and three dogs that I deign to recognize. So there.
I walk in beauty like the night. But I didn’t start out as a glamourpuss. No, I was on those mean streets of Lexington, picked up by animal control and full of kittens (!!!). Gwenda’s yoga instructor ended up fostering me and those hungry babies, and, just when she was about to return me to the shelter where I might or might not have made it, Gwenda and Christopher said they’d take the mama cat. And they kept me, even though I cost $1,000 in vet bills right off the top. Why? Look at me. I am priceless.
Puck – R.I.P. 2005-2022
Gone, but never forgotten. I wrote about our dear Puck, aka Baby Moon, aka Sir Pucklebutt Underfoot–the goodest bad dog ever–over here.