The rescue center named her Fern.
They said she was “shut down.” Not aggressive, not reactive. Just… distant. Like she’d left the world a long time ago and hadn’t found a reason to come back.
She didn’t bark. Didn’t play. When I first saw her, she was curled up in the corner of her kennel, nose buried in her tail, flinching every time a child passed by too loud.
I wasn’t planning to adopt that day. I was just “looking.” But something about Fern — the stillness in her eyes — pulled at me. I didn’t feel sorry for her. I felt… chosen.
The volunteers warned me: Don’t expect too much. She might never come around.
I brought her home anyway.
The first week, she didn’t leave her crate. Not once.
I kept it in the quietest corner of the house, filled with a soft quilted liner, her water bowl, and a plush rabbit I picked up on the way back — one with velvety ears and stitched eyes. She ignored them all.
I didn’t try to pet her. I just sat nearby every evening, reading or sipping tea, sometimes talking to her about nothing.
On day 11, she sniffed the rabbit. On day 16, she took a treat from my hand.
But it wasn’t until day 27 that it happened.
We were in the backyard, a soft spring breeze rolling through. She had started to walk a little more confidently, nose down, ears flicking at bird calls. I laid down on the blanket with my book, trying not to watch her.
Then I felt it.
Something warm and hesitant touched my thigh. I looked down. Fern was sitting beside me, her eyes cautious, her body tense… and her paw gently resting against my leg.
I froze. I didn’t speak. I just let my hand fall, ever so lightly, over hers.
She didn’t flinch.
And that’s how I knew: I was hers now.
She still doesn’t like sudden sounds. Or strangers. But she has her rabbit — the only toy she hasn’t shredded — and her crate, now lined with her favorite fleece mat. And me.
Every evening, after dinner, she walks over, sits beside me, and places that same paw on my lap like a quiet little signature.
We don’t need to say anything.
We already know.