Woman turns her home into hospice for old shelter dogs so they don’t die alone

Even the dogs that may not have much time left should have a loving home. Even though younger puppies frequently take precedence over older dogs, older dogs should have a permanent home to live out their days.

However, one woman has dedicated her life to providing these elderly shelter dogs with a loving final home, converting her house into a sanctuary that is currently home to 80 senior animals.

The 44-year-old Valerie Reid of Hermitage, Missouri, was motivated to care for elderly dogs after a life event made her aware of the challenges that animals encounter as they age.

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As her father battled cancer, SWNS reported that she found it difficult to find a place for her dad’s elderly Doberman. She discovered that no other rescue would take her and that she was already over the city’s pet limit, so she was unable to adopt the dog.

Because of her age, no rescue would take her home, Valerie said, “We looked everywhere for any rescue that would help.”

At last, she managed to find the Doberman a foster home on a farm that took special care of elderly dogs. The dog had a happy ending and lived in peace for an additional year and a half in their care; Valerie found inspiration from the experience that opened her eyes.

She told SWNS, “It got me thinking about what happens to senior dogs who were once beloved pets.” “I became aware of how many dogs there were in need of assistance… It is a genuinely overlooked area in the rescue industry.

Thus, in 2017, Whispering Willows elderly Dog Sanctuary—a non-profit sanctuary for elderly dogs—was established by Valerie and her spouse, Josh. They purchased a 3,000 square foot house near Hermitage, which provided ample space for dozens of canines to pass away peacefully and comfortably.

Dogs older than 12 are accepted. She said to Ozarks First, “Sometimes special needs, sometimes hospice.” “On sometimes, all they come to us for is a place to lay their head and die.”

She clarified that a large number of the dogs had histories of cruelty and neglect, citing the discovery of Peanut, a dog, chained up amid a scorching heat wave.

She said to KY3, “When they come in, they’re very broken-hearted, emotionally or physically.”

Valerie, however, states that her intention is to provide them with a sense of normalcy and trust, as well as a secure permanent residence in which to live out their last days.

“They stay once they arrive. They’re not required to go. Since this is their permanent home, they won’t experience any more stress or loss.

“They know they’re safe when they arrive.”

Over the years, the rescue has expanded significantly; according to SWNS, the hospice currently houses 80 dogs at a time and employs 17 full-time staff members to care for the dogs.

“The sanctuary really grew and expanded beyond my wildest expectations. I adore having so many tiny hearts that reciprocate our love.

According to Valerie, over the years, they have taken care of 790 pets. Because of their advanced age, the dogs frequently die—roughly five of them perish each week, while the same number are adopted.

Valerie takes delight in providing these creatures with a nice environment to pass away, even if her profession can be depressing at times.

“Our goal is to assist individuals in getting ready for their final moments; none of us can predict the future,” she stated to SWNS. We get to bid our seniors farewell in style and with affection. While loving and caring for children is an honor, it hurts nonetheless.

Wealthy Neighbor’s Son Shattered My Window with a Ball — They Declined to Compensate, but Fate Struck from an Unexpected Source

I marched outside, the offending baseball clutched in my hand like a grenade. Baron Bigshot was in his driveway, polishing his luxury car with the care most people reserve for newborns.

“Hey!” I shouted, storming up to him. “Your son’s baseball just came through my window. It nearly hit my daughter!”

He barely glanced up. “Oh? And you’re sure it was my son’s ball?”

I thrust the blueberry pie-lathered ball in his face. “Unless baseballs are falling from the sky now, yes, I’m pretty sure.”

He sighed like I was some peasant interrupting his important car-polishing duties. “Look, Ms…”

“Angela. We’ve been neighbors for three years.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Right, right. Angela. Do you have any proof it was my Billy’s ball?”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Proof? There’s pie filling on it!”

“Ah,” he nodded sagely, “so you admit you tampered with the evidence.”

I felt my eye start to twitch. “Listen here, Baron Big—”

“I beg your pardon?”

I took a deep breath. “Mr. Worthington. Your son broke my window. He could have seriously hurt my daughter. The least you could do is pay for the repairs.”

He chuckled, actually chuckled! “My dear, do you know how much that would cost?”

“Probably less than one of your car’s tires,” I muttered.

His eyes narrowed. “I don’t appreciate your tone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a birthday party to prepare for. Important guests are coming, you understand. Out of my property!”

He said that. Yep! No apology. No NOTHIN’.

As he turned away, something in me snapped. “Oh, I understand perfectly. I understand that you care more about your fancy party than the safety of your neighbors!”

He spun around, his face red. “Now see here—”

But I was on a roll. “No, you see here! Your son has been terrorizing this neighborhood for months. We’ve all been too polite to say anything, but enough is enough. You need to take responsibility!”

“I suggest you leave now before I call the police for trespassing.”

Defeated and furious, I trudged back home, the sound of his expensive sprinkler system mocking me with every step.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of cleaning up glass and comforting a still-shaken Penny.

As evening fell, the sounds of Baron Bigshot’s party drifted over. Laughter, clinking glasses, and what I was pretty sure was a live band.

I was just about to close the curtains (what was left of them anyway) when I saw something odd. A group of young men in masks, all wearing football jerseys, was marching up Baron Bigshot’s perfectly manicured lawn.

“What in the world?” I murmured, pressing my nose against the wooden window sill divider.

Suddenly, they all raised their arms, each holding a football. And then, in perfect synchronization, they let loose.

Footballs rained down on Baron Bigshot’s party like a sports equipment hailstorm. I watched, mouth agape, as chaos erupted.

Guests screamed and ducked, champagne flutes shattered, and Baron Bigshot himself stood in the middle of it all, looking like a man who’d just seen his worst nightmare come to life.

As quickly as it started, it was over. The football players high-fived each other and jogged away, leaving destruction in their wake.

I was still trying to process what I’d seen when there was a knock at my door. It was Mrs. Stewart, grinning like the cat that got the cream.

“Did you see that?” she asked, barely containing her glee.

I nodded, still stunned. “What… how…”

She winked. “Let’s just say my nephew’s football team owed me a favor. Thought our dear neighbor could use a taste of his own medicine.”

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing, tears streaming down my face. “Mrs. Stewart, you’re a genius!”

She patted my arm. “Sometimes, dear, karma needs a little push.”

The next morning, I was enjoying my coffee when there was a furious pounding at my door. I opened it to find Baron Bigshot, looking decidedly less baronial in his rumpled pajamas.

“YOU!” he sputtered, pointing an accusing finger at me. “You did this!”

I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the moment. “Did what?”

“Don’t play dumb! The football attack! It ruined everything!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And do you have any proof it was me?”

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, clearly recognizing his own words being thrown back at him.

I leaned against the doorframe, feeling surprisingly calm. “You know, Mr. Worthington, sometimes life has a funny way of teaching us lessons. Maybe this is yours.”

His face turned an impressive shade of purple. “This isn’t over!”

As he stormed off, I called after him, “Oh, and Mr. Worthington? You might want to consider investing in some wooden planks for your windows. I hear they’re all the rage these days.”

I closed the door, grinning to myself. Penny looked up from her coloring book, curiosity shining in her eyes.

“Mommy, why was that man yelling?”

I scooped her up, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Oh, sweetie. He just learned a very important lesson about being a good neighbor.”

Well, folks, there you have it. Karma works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it? Sometimes it’s swift, sometimes it takes its sweet time, and sometimes it needs a little nudge from a well-meaning neighbor with connections to a high school football team!

So, tell me, have you ever had a neighbor from hell? A Baron Bigshot of your own? Drop your stories in the comments. After all, misery loves company, and nothing brings people together quite like tales of nightmare neighbors!

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