It was a typical kennel morning. She had clicked off the alarm at 6, groomed herself for the day and put on her morning tea. It was tea she was drinking these days (green tea) since that was the rage now. Tea and a bowl of blueberries.

She liked taking care of herself. She liked being fit and independent and she liked living alone. Well, not exactly alone when you considered all of her dogs. By now, there were nearly twenty of them, from puppies to pensioners, and she, herself, had brought every one of them into the world.

She loved her dogs; truly loved them. Unlike some of the people she used to know, many of whom had left her (or left this world) along the way, she didn’t question or doubt this love. She didn’t ask if it was right, or wrong, or “second best.” Instead, she just allowed it to be, trusting that it was healthy and good for her. Trusting that love was love, no matter where it came from or where we found it.

Loving dogs wasn’t good for everybody. That much, she had decided long ago. Her sister, for example, called every night wailing about how she must sell her dogs and close her beloved kennel. “Get rid of those dirty, smelly things and be like the rest of us,” her siser would say … “Get a life!”

But, she had a life. She had a great life. She, who had known passionate, romantic love; (who had been wooed and courted by the best) and who had been given every opportunity to love anyone she wanted, had finally chosen her dogs.

“Why?” her sister taunted in her drunken rages. “Why didn’t you ever marry like I did? Why didn’t you have kids?”

But, I did have kids, she thought. I’ve had kids all my life.

One step at a time, she had brought them into the world. One step at a time, she had nurtured a love that would never leave her. I had kids, she thought … and mine are still with me.

The walk outside, from the house to her kennel, wasn’t very far. Along the path, made of flagstone, she touched the roses that she, herself, had planted over the years . . . one for each of her dogs. There were roses of many colors now along this path. There were colorful roses at her feet and watchful eyes upon her as she made her way to the kennel she had helped to build with her own hands. Noisy? Her sister said the dogs were noisy. Smiling gently, she ran her hand across the hearing aid in her pants pocket … Her dogs weren’t noisy.

They were beautiful.

Inside the kitchen, in a habit from years of kennel management, she glanced around to see that everything was tidy and in its place from the night before. Satisfied, she set her mind on the morning routine and pulled a bag of feed over to the work table. Were they making them heavier, she wondered? She didn’t remember asking the feed mill to make them any bigger.

Lining up the feed bowls, she counted them as she always did, even though she knew she had collected and washed every one of them and none were missing. She just liked counting them; liked seeing them all lined up in a row … it was nice out here, she thought to herself. It was nice, being among dog show pictures and ribbons hanging on the walls and trophies reminding her of friends and laughter.

Scooping kibble into the dishes, she enjoyed the feel of each crunchy morsel mixed specially for her at the local feed mill . . . Fresh meat for the gowing pups and mothers . . . an egg yolk for everyone to make their coats shiny. Reaching up to a shelf, she suddenly caught her breath. That’s odd, she thought. I . . . I can’t reach it. But, I have to, she told herself. The dogs need their vitamins. Pulling a box over to the table, she stepped up and tried again.

And then she knew.

The noise in her head wasn’t dogs barking. The blackness closing in around her wasn’t a storm. The breath eluding her wasn’t being sucked out the windows . . . lowering herself to the floor, steadying herself against the table, she looked anxiously toward the door. Could she make it? Could she make it outside and back to the house?

Like a circus performer on a tight rope, she let go of the table and waved both arms at her sides as she kept the door in sight. One step at a time, she told herself. One step at a time . . .

Ahead was the house, and behind her were the dogs she cared for so much. Leaping, rushing to their kennel doors, frantic, they urged her on . . . Mother! Protector! Friend!

One step at a time . . . one step at a time, the way you planned our lives and brought us into the world . . . the way you raised and cared for us . . . the way you trained us . . . one step at a time.

Roses . . . roses . . . roses of many colors, each color a ribbon . . . each petal a memory rushing through her, over her, as she made it to the house . . . into the house . . . to the phone that she could no longer dial, crying for help in words she could no longer say.

She was a dog breeder.

She didn’t question or doubt, as she was loved on the path of life . . . one step at a time.