For a long time, we were blessed with Huey and Phoebe, a duo of Jack Russell terriers that brought much joy and love into our lives. Phoebe lived the life of a princess, being my mother's favorite, and we had her from the time she was a wee runt until she became a blind, spindly-legged geriatric. Huey, a dopey sweet boy, taught me the painful ecstasy of sudden death when he died in my arms, literally taking his last breath and in that exhale a sweep of his energy rushed through our house.
Then there was Guinness. We called him a Muttweiler--he was half-Rott, a quarter Lab maybe, an eight German Shepherd, and a sixteenth and sixteenth of God know's what. I found him poking through the garbage at a school I worked at; the kids throwing crackers and trash at him. I scooped him up and brought him home. He must have been all of two months at the time. My stepdad adopted him and we raised him on duck and lamb, non-gluten dog food--my parents spent hundreds, maybe thousands of dollars on that dog, trying to cure his perpetual skin ailments and unmistakable pungent odor. He was a great dog as most dogs are--loyal, well-behaved, sweet and calm. He would swim laps in the pool barking and biting at the water. He died a sad, premature death at eight or nine after going blind, his hips failing and his hair falling out in pieces.
Now my parents have Ruby and Juno--an unlikely pair. Ruby is a rehomed Jack--all full of sprite and good cheer. She is the sweetest dog we've had: she'll paw at you like a cat to rub her chest and, literally, one day after I hadn't visited my parents in awhile, jumped into my arms and covered my face in licks and kisses. Juno is another rehomed dog--a Bernese Mountain Dog or something thereabouts, who is still a puppy but twice the size of Ruby and can't help but pee everytime you come home. They play for hours in the yard together, tumbling and chasing each other about.
My parents, especially my mother, instilled a strong love of animals in me and my sister that I carry now with me to Liberty. Though I have befriended many dogs since I've been here, there is a veritable zoo of other creatures that I've come to discover, learn about and love.
There is a llama that looks like an ostrich from afar, but it's not. Although, come to think of it, I've seen an ostrich around here, too. The llama hangs out with the goats and they chew grass all day and then lie together under a tin shed. The goats have udders that swing from their abdomens and kids that romp and butt heads all day. The goats baa like sheep. Horses abound--munching grass under trees, trotting down the lane as their owners wave at me, galloping across pastures with their manes and tails flowing in the wind. Cows abound, too, but they are on other farms and, strangely, I don't see as many of them as I thought I would. There are chickens that forage in the woods and drink from the pond. Since being here, I've learned that chickens don't just cluck, they whine, too, and they will eat anything, including their own eggshells! There are also sheep on Ragmar's farm, but they won't let you get near them and hide in the tall grass. 
That is, except for one sheep--one lil lamb named Daphne. She came to the house a few days ago, rejected by her mother after being born (a normal occurrence I've learned if the mama sheep has too many lambs to care for or is sick, etc.). This black, wooly-haired lil girl came to us all spindly-legged, her eyes still cloudy from birth. Needless to say, I adopted her. She needed someone to take care of her and I needed to take care of someone or something. I pulled myself out of bed at 3am to bottle feed her, spent the morning scrubbing the porch that's adjacent to my bedroom of the shit and pee she left everywhere, and just held her close. Now she cries when I'm gone too long or if she's hungry. Today, I found her waiting for me at the gate after I left for an hour to go to the market. Her tail wags and dances when she smells me or hears my voice. She's a dear little lamb.
There are also dogs and cats here, too. Deuce is a skittish black and white tomcat who won't let anyone get near. He's been traumatized by his mother, Stack, a gray and black striped kitty who hisses at him, but adores people. She was a lovebug when I first arrived, but I've noticed that she's kept her distance from me since I adopted Daphne. Myrna, a great, big lug of a white dog, lives down the lane and leaps out at cars from the side of the road when you approach. I worry about her getting hit, but she's almost as big as my car, so I hope that should that ever happen, she'll be okay. Sade, was just a floppy, paunch-bellied pup when I first got here, but she's grown twice her size in only two or three weeks. 
There is a cycle of life here that I am coming to grasp and understand. Random shots sometime ring out , exploding through the hills, and I then know that a feral dog may have been killed or a horse who couldn't stand. The butterflies eat the chicken poop and the chickens eat their own eggshells and the frogs eat the dragonflies that eat the mosquitoes that eat us. And then we eat everything else. Although, I keep telling Daphne that no one will eat her.
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