I’m 75, born and raised in Tennessee, and somehow I’ve spent my life taking in what others left behind. First injured birds, then stray cats, and after my husband passed, dogs—especially the ones no one wanted.
That’s how I ended up with Pearl and Buddy, two small rescue dogs who can’t use their back legs. Pearl was hit by a car; Buddy was born that way. With their little wheel carts, they don’t walk—they roll, clicking softly down the street, tails wagging like joy is all they’ve ever known.
Most people smile when they see them. But one neighbor, Marlene, called them “disgusting” and threatened to get rid of them. I stood my ground. I listened, stayed calm, and let others speak too.
When animal control showed up because of her complaint, neighbors stepped forward. The officer saw the truth: my dogs were loved and well cared for. Marlene was warned, and the power shifted.
After that, something beautiful happened. Neighbors left notes, kids joined our walks, and soon the whole block walked together—what we called the “roll parade.” Pearl and Buddy didn’t just find a home. They brought one to all of us.