She saw what mattered

Misty couldn’t hear a thing.
She could barely see.
But if you opened a bag of chips or unwrapped a slice of cheese, she’d find you—every time.

She had this howl. Not a bark, not a whine. A kind of long, hopeful song that said, “I know you’ve got something good… and I’d like a piece, please.”

It never got old.

She was one of the many rescues who came through our lives—broken in ways we could see, whole in ways we couldn’t.
Misty had this way of showing up wherever she pleased. One minute she’d be under the table. The next, curled in a laundry basket or stretched out in the one warm sliver of sun on the floor. And her favorite perch? The back of the couch. She’d climb up there like she owned it—because, in a way, she did.

She made the most of wherever she landed.

And honestly, I think about that more than I ever expected to.

She didn’t need perfect conditions to feel peace.
She didn’t wait until she could see it all clearly to go after what she wanted.
She didn’t care what anyone thought of her howl.

She just lived. Fully.
Eyes cloudy. Ears silent. But heart? Wide open.

Most of us are waiting for life to get easier before we let ourselves enjoy it.
Waiting until we’ve figured it all out.
Until we’ve “earned” rest.
Until we’ve achieved enough to justify asking for what we need.

But what if we stopped waiting?

What if we howled a little more when something looked good to us?
What if we climbed to the back of the couch—just because we wanted to feel the sun on our face?

What if we chose joy and weirdness and presence… even when things aren’t perfect?

Misty didn’t ask permission to be happy.
She just found her spot and let herself feel good in it.

Maybe we could, too.

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