Sometime last year, a veterinarian asked us to help an old lady in a village. To help her with her dogs, because she had nothing left to feed them. It doesn't matter which doctor, or which old lady, or which village. And we went to the old lady's house to do a social survey about the welfare of the dogs and ask her why she needed dogs if she couldn't take care of them. And if she doesn't have any food, then where does she get the deworming and vaccination? All the questions that were lingering on our tongues remained unanswered. They remained in the lumps in our throats and in our rail files. For once we stepped into Grandma's yard, the first feeling was one of shame. For here we met the hunger that looked at us through the eyes of dog and human alike. We couldn't understand where to pour out our pity, nor for whom it was. When people feel pity, it is because they still have something that others no longer have. Pity places you in a superior position, somewhere above the other, and maintains the illusion that you are a good person and that you care. It was pity because of hunger, it was hard to accept, it was overwhelming and unfair. So I left pity and questions, and chose shame and guilt.

Grandma? Poor and dry, brought back by years and worries, work and loneliness. Our eyes fell on her cracked and gnarled hands. And on her hard-worked nails. Poor grandmother. The dogs? Two pekinejis both crammed into a backpack and still there was room. They were housed in a rabbit hutch. Then I peeked into the bowl where they had food. Boiled potatoes. There was nothing more to say, no more talk. And in our souls a carousel of feelings. Grandma gave us the dogs with her cracked hands. She didn't chase them away, she didn't take them to the woods. And when she couldn't, she gave them to them for better. But what was in her heart we'll never know.

The dogs arrived safely on the fluff. They've forgotten their grandmother. But Grandma didn't forget about them. It's been a long time since then. Time doesn't heal, it's what you do with time. Grandma's story hasn't healed either. And thoughts run to that gaping, gaping wound. And we, bereft of a sense of mercy and compassion, have just ended the string of winter holidays with tons and mountains of food thrown in the dumpster. A time when hunger stares at us through the eyes of humans and animals. Sometimes it seems unseemly for us to eat, with so much hunger around us. But to understand it, you have to get down there, among them.

In leather jackets and black clothes, to the rhythm of rock and with open hearts, this is how a gang of motorcyclists from Suceava spend Christmas Eve! With carols and gifts with our dogs in the shelter! Thracvm RC gang! Thank you, friends! And we've learned over the years that these people in black, with beards and motors, listening to good loud music, are absolutely all animal lovers! And that behind their 'Bad to the Bone' appearance lies a total respect for all life - be it a dog, a blade of grass or a tree!

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Our respect, guys!

Once upon a time there was a bitch we rescued from Burdujeni and who ended up in a NATO military base in the UK. Promoted from Police to Special Forces. And because Christmas days are about stories being told and shared, being woven or born before our eyes, we have chosen to write you a different story tonight. Immortal. A story about the love we carry inside us forever. And then, when we leave this earth, we take it with us to the next world. On June 17, 2019, on Whitsun Day, the guys from the Burdujeni Local Police Station asked for our support with a bitch hit by a car. Nice and hearty as I've always known them, the cops brought the bitch to the vet, and from there she remained in our care. A fractured leg, surgery, the bitch recovered, put back on 4 legs and named Rusalia after the big celebration in which she was rescued.

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We receive a very nice message from a Romanian woman living in England. She was very fond of Rusalia, they had another dog rescued from a shelter in Craiova. But not just any kind of dog, but a totally unadoptable, traumatized, abandoned dog in the shelter, which they totally took on. We talked a lot on the phone, made sure she left in good hands, did paperwork and paperwork, then sent Rusalia on the journey of a lifetime. Our Romanian? Meda Sandu. She graduated from Sava High School in Bucharest and was admitted to Boston University, studying medicine. Which took some work, in addition to her intelligence. Meda has volunteered in the most remote backwaters of Africa. To be truly happy, she had to help others. She went to the other side of the world to give a helping hand to children from troubled families, starving, raped, suffering from AIDS, with prostituted mothers, drug-addicted fathers and sick grandparents. After her studies she settles in the UK and marries Tim, a UK officer in the Royal Marines Special Forces. Rusalia arrived in England on 19 September 2019. A dream life. A family of beautiful young people, intellectuals, walks, holidays, love, civilization. We get photos, talk to them, exchange messages. So beautiful. We also send them by courier the CD with the X-ray that preceded Rousalia's surgery, as they were going to make her life insurance. Last year in the lock down, Meda sends us masks and creams for our cracked hands from all the spit and disinfectant. We always kept in touch with them, we were very happy for Rusalia and especially because Meda didn't forget his country and gave a poor shelter stray a great chance.

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In July 2020, Medea's husband Tim dies. He was just 37 years old. Sudden cardiac arrest, they later learned of his autoimmune disease. We found out a couple of months later, around September.

I had just lost a good friend from Suceava, Alexandra Carpan. And Meda found the strength to write to us. Below is her message, which we read and reread, and which left us speechless...when there was so much more to say: 'Hi, I saw your post about Alexandra. I'm terribly sorry. I know what it means and it is very difficult to accept when a young person and especially a good soul is taken so early, and nothing I can say will comfort you or take away your pain. All I can tell you is that in time, the pain transforms into an even stronger love that will fill your soul with good feelings, but slowly and very slowly - at least that is what I hope the end will be. I haven't told you yet, but my husband Tim, Rusalia's father, died in July at 37. Somewhat asymptomatically, suddenly, one night he went into cardiac arrest, an autoimmune disease that weakened his heart beyond detection. He was an officer in the UK, in the Royal Marines Special Forces, and was the healthiest, strongest, most fit person I have ever known. The result of the autoimmune disease was given almost a month later after many tests, because the autopsy showed nothing. It is very painful and hard for those left behind. Especially for Rusalia, who since her death they hardly take her out of the house, carry her a few streets because she doesn't want to walk. She's sad, although in the last few weeks she's recovered, but she's waiting for him. They loved each other very much, and she lived with him in the NATO military base, super secret base and had been promoted from police to special forces. I can't tell you how happy you made him with Rusalia, she would call me and tell me how special she was, how cool and loving and weird at the same time, and how she felt when he was upset. How he would bury her toys under him, and how they would both sleep in bed, and when the lights went out she would go to her bed. She was his alarm. When the alarm went off, she'd let him snooze her twice, the third time she'd come and smack him in the head! I hadn't seen a connection like theirs, and now she had moved to a base in Scotland where she couldn't wait to get it, she had 5km surrounded by grass on base, and she loved it (I took her there when I emptied her room) and she was with me. You'll also see the video where she doesn't drink water from the bowl, but she emptied his water bottle. It's so impressive how he still sits and waits. I couldn't write sooner because I was actually distracted, but slowly for Rusa and Polly I have to move forward with him in my heart. I am sending you some pictures (the picture of him and her was the picture I put all over his funeral ), instead of flowers I asked for donations for you and the NGO where I picked up Polly, if you receive in memory of Tim or Maj TMB Addison RM's for him (possibly unsigned), I hope it raises a bit so you can do something. I hope in the future we can work together to do something in his memory, maybe a playground for the dogs in the shelter, maybe a building for the sick or disabled, at the moment I am not up to it but in the future I would love it and I know he would love it too. Kisses and hold on tight!'

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Tim and Rusalia have shared less than a year together. She was the love of his life. The connections between us are permanent, and their traces remain in everything we are, even when people are no longer in our lives. Meda went through all kinds of merry-go-rounds, losses, trials. But she knew how to find that deep love that transforms, converts hearts, destinies and finally draws a rainbow in the sky...when the rain caught up with her and she couldn't find any more answers! Christmas in peace, Meda! With your dogs! These lines are for you! We embrace you with love! You are the most beautiful and strongest man in the world! Below pictures of rescuing Rousalia, of a fairytale life with Meda and Tim, of Meda volunteering in Africa.

Life will follow its own steps, and we will let it lead us with love and faith! Love, Roxana!

It's past midnight and I'm writing to you now when it's quiet. It's just the two of us. You and me, my Romania! Today is your birthday. And they'll celebrate you with parades, with tanks and helicopters, with beans and chickpeas. They'll sing your songs and they'll sing your praises, they'll shout your name and wave your flags. Today they will remember you.

I was born here. This is where I learned to grow and to love. And this is where I came back every time I left. For your land knows how to call back with thirst and longing, even when it's empty and barren, sold, stolen, cracked or full of thistles. On your birthday I would bind up your wounds, heal your weaknesses and teach you the way back home. For it seems you're lost too. Then, when you return, I'll tell you how beautiful you are and how much I love you!

We, a handful of people, have chosen to take care of your animals, My Romania! For they are so many, and the arms that fight for them so few. We no longer have enough time and life to help, to heal and to put love on their wounds. And there is so much love to give to each one of them and it never ends. Your animals are many and lonely. A few of your children stop by to pet them, cover their wounds and find them a home. But it's still no good. For the ultimate arrogance rings in our ears like a curse: 'But the old and the orphans have nothing to eat and you spend money on dogs!' We, this handful of people who have chosen to work between their legs, are not responsible for all the sins of the world. It is for children and old people that your state fights. Fight the system and other NGOs. And if the pain among the animals were less, and if we had an hour left in the day, we would fight for people too. Because in this life you have to fight an honest fight no matter which front and enemies you choose. Whether you do it for people or animals, for the wastelands that call you home, for the forests that weep under chainsaws and axes, or for your clear waters. Fight for what you want! But fight for something! For a better world! And you who ask us why we fight this battle, what are you fighting for? If you are not fighting for something, you have no right to choose what we do with our time on earth. And if you are fighting for something, you will not stand in our way, for you know how hard it is to tread the path to a new beginning. We will never judge you. For together we fight for you, My Romania!

On your birthday they'll light up millions of little lights for millions of lei. Maybe they won't forget to turn on the lights in your soul. They'll say poems. And they'll sigh that they want a Romania like Outside. We know we have you, but we treat you like you belong to our enemies. What do I wish you for your birthday? To cure your people of dehumanization. Teach the money-hungry that there's such a thing as hunger for food. To those hungry for food, find people to feed them. To those who can't get enough, teach them about humanity. At least today your sons and daughters can put their hearts together and pull the same cart. Let them bring you back home from the wastelands you've wandered. Let them lift you back up. To water your roots. To wash away your dust and your sins.

And to your leaders give wisdom! May they love and respect you as a Mother! And today when they recite your Creed and urge you to wake up, let them do it with tears in their eyes, with goosebumps, with hope and excitement, with faith and with God! And to remember the moment when they swore with their hand on the Holy Book to protect you!

With masks on our faces, but not on our souls, let's bring Romania back home! Let's draw a rainbow in the sky! Let's kiss its cracked hands and ask for forgiveness! For we have only one! And let's love it so much that we'll give our lives for it!

Life will follow its own steps, and we will let it lead us with love and faith! Love, Roxana!

Today is World Day for all our non-living friends! And ours! Of those of us who love, cherish, respect and share our moments and our existence with them!

Also today is the feast of St Francis of Assisi, the heavenly protector of animals and nature. And browsing through Google about his life, I learned that through his kindness and wisdom he was able to speak, heal, communicate and tame animals. History tells us how he made peace with the wolf. It is said that a village in Italy, Gubbio, was terrorized by a wolf, and everyone was armed with pitchforks and shovels to kill it. Until one day St Francis decided to go to the wolf and talk to it. People thought he was crazy. And the saint said to the wolf: 'I know you only want food, and that's why you kill and make havoc. But I promise you that the villagers will give you food, and you promise me that you won't hurt anyone else'. The wolf gave him his paw, they made a pact, and began a beautiful friendship.

It is also said that the wolf lived with the villagers for two years, and roamed the houses of the people who fed and cared for it. They loved him so much, that when the wolf died - they built a church, and under the altar his head is buried. St Francis is also considered the first ecologist in history to speak about the importance of understanding man with nature, and living in harmony.

It is also said that for his great humility, purity, holiness and love for all creation, God made him to understand the language of animals, to speak to them and to preach to them as to humans. Once he stopped by an almond tree and said to it, 'Tell me something about God!' And the almond tree blossomed on the spot

In the meantime, mankind has learned nothing. We are waging a war against nature. Two-thirds of the world's wild animal populations have disappeared in less than 50 years. Three billion animals have been killed in fires in Australia. We're giving up. We kill. We destroy their habitats. And we move forward purely out of inertia, deluding ourselves that some of us are good, and saving.

On their Day, we saved a few souls. One of them with his throat cut, here in the pictures. He may never have had friends, but today he has us.

Life will follow its own steps, and we will let it lead us with love and faith! Love, Roxana! ❤️

Psychologists say that a personal or collective crisis does not polish people's character, as is wrongly believed, but only reveals it. So does the pandemic war we've been fighting in our souls for half a year. We delude ourselves into believing that people used to be kinder and more empathetic. They were exactly the same, except there were fewer ways to express their Homo Sapiens roots set on self-destruction.

It was in this context that I met Oscar. Somewhere in Shcheia, tied up on a hill behind a house whose owners had moved away. But they didn't need Oscar anymore. Word had reached him that he was extremely aggressive, and was only fed from time to time from a distance by the mercy of some neighbours. With a shovel. Water only from the rain. The old belt that hung around his neck was about three holes wider, and could come off the chain at any time. But where could he go if that was his home? Legs crooked with rickets, ribs through his skin, and he a shadow of a dog that had once been a Rottweiler.

Oscar was actually a good dog, but only he knew that. I put him in a pen alone, as I had heard the legend of shovel feeding. One day a man came to the shelter to adopt a dog. He sees Oscar, and they've been together ever since. Then the man finds out he has to go to England to work and make money. For he had a sick little girl at home who needed an operation in Germany. And he had no money for the operation. But he doesn't want to go to London without Oscar. In the meantime, the covid had taken over the planet, we were trapped in our homes, in our own fears, actors in scenarios that changed from one night to the next, and we left the house with papers.

The man can no longer go to London, all flights cancelled, but he continues to come to the shelter every day to see his dog, bring him food from home, walk him in the fields and through the woods. I forbade him to come anymore, as we were living and sharing in the collective fear and psychosis. I even threatened him that we would notify the filter installed at Pătrauți to turn him away. And then we'd run into Oscar's eyes... waiting for him, looking for him. And I realized we're crazy, and we react instinctively to fear. Like animals. Now, five months later, I realize we were more afraid of the anxiety than the disease itself. We are weak and vulnerable. And the only way to our souls is to embrace those vulnerabilities. And I took them on, for I asked the man's forgiveness, and asked him to come to the shelter every day.

The fear, the psychosis, the pandemic season passed, the planes started flying, and our man and his dog went to London. Together. They're inseparable, both at work and at home. I get pictures of their happiness, and Oscar's story keeps taking me back in time. And into a story about being left by his masters, about the day he met his man, but also about fear. We had a fear together, and we will never forget it, for the mind is a complicated and perverse mechanism. But we accepted each other's fears, forgave each other our glances, and together we found a way through it all, Oscar. Thanks to the man of this story, Sorin Barbosu! Thanks also to the other friends who aligned the planets for Oscar! Găbița, Corina and Ligia! Life will follow its own steps, and we will let it lead us with love and faith! Love, Roxana! ❤️

Romanian history was written on horseback. And with the horse. It was also with him that we wrote our fairy tales and immortal stories. In the meantime, the face of the Romanian has changed. And the horse became his slave. Romania does not respect its animals. So why should the Romanian? By birth, a traditionalist. Who loves the traditional family, dogmas and unwritten laws.

Paradoxically, the Romanian kneels down to the only animal on whose back he produces anything. Something....orice. I met Spirit in Bălăceana. Around June this year. They beat him until he fell with his cart in a ditch. And because he couldn't get up, they hit him with the handle of the whip over his head and eyes until he was almost blind. And the tears on one horse's cheek stung with helplessness. It was the last night he saw his master. Three months have passed since then, during which time he learns only about peace and freedom.

Spirit's master returned the next day to retrieve his horse. After waking up from his drunkenness. The horse was gone, and he didn't understand why. A traditional local living in a traditional family. No, we don't want traditional families! We want modern, emancipated, educated, polite, well-read families who don't have a toilet in the backyard, who don't have a notebook at the crèche, who don't drink their children's allowance, who don't wear a lamb's cap and brocade, who don't fight with each other, husband on wife, wife on children, children on parents and vice versa, who don't pick their noses in public, who don't beat their horses, who don't chain their dogs, who.....and who. All we have left is consolation, and if we console ourselves, we go back.

We do not generalize, we do not nominate. Life will follow its own footsteps, and we will let it guide us with love and faith. Love, Roxana ❤️

I pulled over today for a few minutes somewhere in the Albina area, under a patch of shade. Gathering papers from around the car, thoughts and worries, and making a plan for another half day, so I don't step in the same place twice. On the other sidewalk a lady passes by. Old, but so flirtatious! With a white hat, and a white dog.

Walk at a dog's pace. The dog's walk heavy, swaying, and shaky with the hind legs. From time to time he would stumble, the lady would come up to him and whisper something, he seemed to understand her words, and he would get up the courage again to take her at a walk. I had to meet her. So I looked for a job to talk to her, and asked her how old the dog was. Then we sat and talked like we were at recess!

His name is Al, and he's only 11 years old. He was rescued from the streets when he was just a month old, and raised in his home, bed, family, and apartment! With trembling voice, the lady tells me that he has already started to walk hard, his legs are falling off, and his bones hurt. I ask her if he has a vet or needs support! She smiles at me, and points to veterinary doctor Dodoiu's office. I smile too, and ask her...Mr. Dodoiu must be old, right? And I am filled with memories of the times when Dr. Dodoiu was one of the few veterinarians in Suceava, and of the times when I was stuck under the walls of his office with all the animals I found from the Sanitary High School to the Little Market and the rescue station, because that's where I grew up. And with the day-old chickens that were sold in the Little Market for 5 lei, but the sick ones they gave me for free. And with them I used to go to Doctor Dodoiu, then I used to raise them on the balcony, catch flies with a paddle and feed them, and as soon as their wings grew, my grandparents moved them to the country. But I would bring others. Always.

I dared to ask Mrs. Maria Cuciureanu how old she is! She's many, and beautiful! And tomorrow is her birthday! In her bag she had half a page of a Lidl magazine, and an empty bag of sliced franzela. Ready in case Al poops on the sidewalk. And he's been walking like that for 11 years, always. He was so happy to tell me about how many souls he saved, how many cats he rescued from blocks, and how many broken-winged pigeons he fixed...with honey and aloe. Then she complained about the wickedness of the people, and the neighbours who judge her, and scold her, and point fingers at her, and are incapable of animals! And I told her a saying I learned from Father Pimen... that the mouth of the world is closed only by the earth! And I told her she was wonderful!

Happy birthday for tomorrow, Mrs. Maria! You're exactly as I'd like to be at your age! Cheerful, cute, optimistic, with red nails and full of saved souls! Life will follow its steps, and we will let ourselves be led by it with love and faith. Love, Roxana ❤️

Somewhere on Alexandru cel Bun, an old lady is walking on a leash a dog that looks as old as she is. The lady is coquettish, with a thick turban on her head, glasses on the tip of her nose, and a bag.

The dog with the blue hair, no blue blood, and no impressions. A retired stray. He smiles at her, and waits for her. They both walk at a walk, going absolutely nowhere. They don't have all the time in the world, but they seem to have had each other forever.

The old woman leans on the cane from time to time. He looks at her, seems to know how long the pain is holding her, and waits. Three steps later, the puppy stops twice, and takes a short poop on the sidewalk. The old woman stops, for it is his turn to wait. She takes a newspaper out of her bag, and wipes the mess away. They continue on their way together. At a walk. A step learned in a human life, and in a dog's life. A life lived beautifully, and grown old as well. Kiss my hand, lady!

A story born from a glance. And told from a thought. And lived during the pandemic.

And since the summer season is here, and this year we're doing more holidays in the country and around the house, I'm thinking of taking my dog and my tent, and going somewhere in the mountains. To rest, to sleep, to catch up on neglected dog time, to hunt for hribi and lost zen. And I'm beating my head where to go, and where to pitch my tent, so I can let my dog roam free without getting shot!

The hunting fund centraliser says that the total area in Romania for hunting is 22,047,504 hectares. And Romania has a total area of 23,839,700 hectares. Roughly speaking, 93% of our country's surface area is hunting land. Minus the capital and nature reserves, but that's not where I'm camping. Suceava is in second place. That's a big dilemma, because if the family's patruped goes outside the 7% safety zone of Romania's territory, it can be shot without restrictions. That sucks.

By 2015, the police registered a number of 107,511 lethal weapons for hunting, in Romanian one lethal weapon for every 180th inhabitant of the country. And the law is a bit of a hunter's defence. In Sasca Mică they shot the dogs of my friend, Dănuț Lucaciu, right next to the houses. At Arbore they wreaked havoc, so much so that children contacted us to tell us that the road to Clit was littered with the bodies of shot dogs. At Cacica in the forest they shot again, but the poor puppy is alive. In Zvorâștea a little boy is still shooting cats among the houses, but he's quiet, no one has looked for him yet. In Iaslovat they shot a white puppy right in front of a house. The truth is that they like to shoot dogs, and they do it with passion.

In my mind there are about five categories of hunters. The rich, the green hunters, the hunting politicians, the poachers, and our ancestors. The latter, that is, the real ones, hunted to survive, to eat and to cover their bodies with furs. They were intelligent, and used all the senses their mothers endowed them with when they gave birth to them (so as not to confuse the deer with their mate).

The rich hunter pays dearly to kill and satisfy his inner bloodlust. He flies by plane, he flies hundreds of kilometres by jeep, and he ends up in the Carpathians. Where the bear awaits him, ready fed and prepared in advance. He, the rich man, climbs into hiding, and if he's too old and feeble to do so, the minions climb him up, complete with armchair. The bear comes to the feeder this time too, just like the Guleratu of Predeal. He looks for it with his telescope, and even runs the point along the animal's back, belly and shoulders, and prolongs the moment, because that excites him. Sometimes their eyes even meet. The master of the forest face to face with a coward. He executes his toy, but is careful not to crush its proud head, for he has paid dearly for the trophy. And the minions slice up the thief. Then he flies back home, sees Romania's forests from the plane, runs his hand through his moustache, and already knows he'll return to our beloved country. These rich people still have the habit of meeting each other, of chatting informally, and they go golfing in England, or on safari in Africa, but for the killing and hunting they come to Romania.

The hunters in green have jeeps, camouflage clothing, organize themselves in gangs or in the relationship of brother-in-law - brother-in-law - godson - grandson, invest a lot in logistics and modern technology (thermal detection, infrared), sometimes pay and hire hunters to keep their game in the wild, and even have a Hunting License.

Poor poachers are many, small and hungry. Like the plebs. If they want to put a game trophy on the table, or sell a trophy on the black, they go straight to the forest. They have no scruples, but they have complexes. They don't have a licence for a lethal weapon, but they sit with a gun in the attic, like the Baitanis caught last week in Sucevita.

The subject of poaching - hunting is a long, slippery one, not least because of the barons and important people in the landscape and institutions. And so we fall into the last category, that of hunting politicians. Until 1989 we had a great dictator, and a great hunter. Ceaușescu had the ambition to be the first hunter of the country, and those around him even made him believe he was. Now we have more and smaller ones who have discovered a new passion. They do not know the term 'wild animal', only 'hunted', and this linguistic embarrassment reflects precisely their contempt for all that is life. But I have sworn off politics.

There is a lot of hunting in Romania. Enorm. The first Hunting Law passed after the Revolution was in 1996. Since then it has been amended about 15 times, the last being Law 145/2015 - which also led to protests by poor shepherds outside Parliament, outraged at the limitation of the number of sheepdogs, their shooting and the shortening of the grazing period. But it is also absurd that the Act protects hunters. Nowhere in European law is there the term 'stray dog or cat', and in Romania not only does it exist, but they can be shot without restriction once found somewhere in the 93% of Romania's hunting area.

Any licensed gunman would feel entitled to shoot all the dogs and cats in Romania if they were not on a leash, or if they did not have a petticoat around their necks, the distinctive mark of the shepherd. Romanian ornithologists accuse dogs of destroying biodiversity, but without figures or statistics - and lack of clear evidence means irrational behaviour. But isn't man the worst enemy of biodiversity? Greenpeace Romania says that four times the amount of wood disappears each year as the volume of the People's House. A man of mind and soul loves nature and its spectacle, and the joy of life is that forests and hills are home to wild animals.

In the 21st century, we are living through a genocide of biodiversity, and all that remains in its wake are hunting statistics and forests razed to the ground. We live in a Romania of hunting areas, quotas and permits. Need we talk about morality and empathy? How pathological does a society have to be to allow itself to kill animals for pleasure?

So where do I go camping, and let my dog run around without fear of being shot? This summer I don't have anywhere!