Happy tails — our successful rescues

Sawyer was found abandoned in a baseball field at eight to ten years old — no vet history, no papers, and a mouthful of painful teeth. Dr. Mike at Fieldstone gave him the full workup he'd never had: neutering, a complete round of vaccinations including rabies, and every bad tooth extracted.

Then came Cal and Darlene. They text often with updates, and the report is always the same: he's very, very happy there, and very much loved. Cuddles on the couch, a striped shirt of his own, and all the loving he wants — with plenty given back.

Gracie Mae is where the rescue started. This Yorkie Poo came to us food aggressive and a runner — guarding every bite and bolting every chance she got. Patience fixed both, one day at a time.

She was supposed to be a rescue. Instead she became family for life — thirteen years old now, and one of the two grandmas who run this house.

Jensen was surrendered by a lady who couldn't keep him. He weighs three and a half pounds, and he was born with a club foot — there's a steel rod in his front leg. He was so timid, and he couldn't manage steps, so for the better part of two years we carried him everywhere.

Our Yorkies brought him out of his shell. He was adopted right here in Hillsdale by an older lady who knows Yorkies well — now he's a full-time lap dog, and they're sunrise partners.

Remy was surrendered at nine months old. His mom worked long hours, and apartment life was driving this tall, skinny, happy-go-lucky boy up the walls. He arrived current on his shots and needed almost no work at all — just a home with room for him.

We placed him with a family with five kids — their first dog ever. Remy walked in and rubbed himself all over the furniture like he'd come home. Our hearts were full that day.

Nico arrived wearing a diaper — with fleas, no potty training, and an attitude — and hair dyed red. That red tint people noticed? A dye job, not his color. And his fur was discolored where the diaper sat — diapers leave their mark.

We worked through all of it: the fleas, the manners, the aggression. The diaper came off, the dye grew out, and the dog underneath turned out to be a good one. Today he's a completely different dog than the one who came through our door.

Skye was ten weeks old when she came to us — and she'd already been traded once. A man sold his truck and threw the puppy in with the deal. The fellow who got her had nowhere to keep her, so he carried her over to a young couple's house. They had a little girl and a new baby, and no idea what they'd been handed.

Once they looked up what kind of dog she was and how big she was going to get, they knew their home just didn't have the room. So they called us. Skye's been here ever since — all 100-plus pounds of her. And she has a job now: keeping the farm's birds safe, watching over the geese and the ducks' nests against the coyotes, foxes, possums, raccoons, and feral cats that would love to get into them.

Storm was about sixteen weeks old, living in a trailer court with a woman and her three kids — a place that didn't allow mastiffs. She'd been kept caged, and Storm was never built for a cage: she hurt her back leg fighting it, the same leg she favors to this day, and she had a big lump on her head that we believe came from being hit with something hard. We never could get her vet records or any history on her — the girl owed the vet money and never paid, and that was that.

The breeder told us she was about ten different kinds of mastiff, and her DNA panel backs that up — fourteen breeds in there, Neapolitan Mastiff the biggest share. The lump healed and grew out, just like we figured it would. The limp stayed. And when the trailer court said no mastiffs, Storm came here — truth is, she never would have fit that life anyway. She barely fits this big house and this whole farm. But she's home — and she earns her keep, standing guard over the geese and the ducks' nests with Skye, keeping the coyotes, foxes, possums, raccoons, and feral cats honest.