The truth is that I don’t know where to begin…I bought this house for my beloved two little rescue dogs. Hariat was five years old when we adopted her from the Lakeshore Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rescue. I said we because I was married at the time, and we drove almost five hours south to pick her up from the farm where she was being fostered. Down and back in one day. When we arrived home that evening our sweet corgi Oliver was waiting with my brother and Dad, who lived with us at the time. We lifted Ariat, as she was named then, out to the driveway to meet Oliver at nose level. Oliver was the second corgi we had adopted a few years prior. They smelled one another and did a runner around the yard. Our mouths dropped open; they acted like they recognized each other and were the oldest of friends getting reacquainted. They were genuinely glad to see each other. Adjustment time = zero days.

Several months prior we had lost my darling Christie, or Arborglenn Pastel of Christie as she was registered with the AKA. Her mother had been US Champion of Breed, and she was the first corgi I had ever known. She was the canine love of my life and 15 years was far too short a time together. I was devastated losing her and had no intention of ever opening my heart to another dog again. At that time Oliver had been with us a few years. He was devastated, too. But during a routine checkup for Oliver the vet asked how we were getting along without Christie and I burst into tears. The vet admonished me and insisted I consider adopting another dog. A few months later we were blessed to find Ariat.

Ariat had been a working dog on a horse farm, named after a brand of equestrian gear. But her name was difficult for the three curmudgeon men of the house. And so she and I discussed the issue and agreed we would add an H to the beginning of her name. Problem solved. She would teach me that I could open my heart again. She was an angel in a dog suit.

We lived in a beautiful saltbox colonial in the lovely wooded suburb of Shorter Lake Woods. I not-so-affectionately called it the snub-division of Stepford Lake Woods. I loved the house itself, not the snooty neighborhood or the ridiculous homeowners association.

We had three neighbors, each a half acre away, including the HOA president next door. The homes on either side were barely visible through the mature pine trees unless you were actually outside in one of the side yards. The house across the road was visible through the western living room window. But it seems they could see us, and we were in constant non-compliance to one of the many rules.

One summer weekend I had a friend visit from downstate, a Michigan State University graduate with a degree in landscape design. She commented that the trees were past their maturity and in dire need of attention. I had no idea! And what do I do about that? “Well, she responded, we can do some trimming right now for starters.” And she was up and out, grabbing her very impressive lopers from the trunk of her car. And she and I worked all day trimming lower branches, her teaching me why this was good for the health of the tree and how it would benefit the canopy. We transplanted perennials I didn’t even realize would flower in some sun. We made mulch out of gathered pine needles. I hadn’t worked that hard in years. I would get a letter three days later from Mr. President informing me that I was not allowed to trim trees. It must be done by a professional arborist.

It hadn’t been long before that when old Christie had been laying out on the front lawn one day. She was quite lame by this time, and deaf and blind. Oliver had been an abused puppy before we adopted him, always timid and terrified of strangers. So he lay on the front porch well behind Christie. I returned home from work and turned in my drive behind a strange white truck. The county animal control. Seems they had received three complaints about our dogs. The officer got out of his truck and approached the house and neither dog moved. Maybe they attempted a muffled insincere bark. He asked if we could speak inside. He informed me that he had received three complaints, one from each of our barely visible adjacent neighbors. All on the same day. One at 11 a.m. The next one at noon. And – yep, you guessed it – the third at 1 p.m. Apparently the complaint was that our two small elderly dogs had been using their yards as bathrooms. There were dogs who did do that. They were large unattended dogs. One I recognized from a few doors down; most of the time I did not know them. I was always picking up after those dogs also. But even the county police officer acknowledged that we had a problem here with a bored out of work HOA president. He laughed about it. I didn’t see the humor. But I did know what this was about, and which husband was behind it (namely mine) and the political argument that had instigated the disdain.

Fast forward a couple of years and everything had changed. Christie was gone. Dad was gone. Now Oliver was deaf and blind and Hariat his constant protector. I was divorced, traumatized, and lived alone with both dogs. No living parents to appease, my brother now refused to speak to me. I had gone no contact with one sister. I had moved away from Manville. Yep. That house which I never named became known to me as Manville, after a horrible nightmare one night where I was stranded in a town of that name, fearing for my life.

Intuitively I have always felt a connection to every house I’ve ever lived in. I believe that, like a marriage, a third entity is created when these bonds are formed. It has a life all it’s own. We enter into a contract of care, and the commitment is not to be taken lightly. The home requires and deserves our attention and respect. It depends on us and in return it protects us. Treat it well and it will nurture our spirit.

A house becomes a home when we interact with it, when we feel safe there. When we express our gratitude for it. If we allow, it becomes a “thin place” where the veil between worlds is thin. I’ve moved twice in the dozen years since Manville. I cannot voice my gratitude without tears. I’ve since lost Oliver and Hariat and my brother. In my previous home I adopted a miniature beagle named Odie from the Kent County Animal Shelter, and I’ve since lost him. We agreed to take care of a Maine Coon cat named Chewy for a couple of months a couple of years ago. For over a year he and Odie were inseparable, and now it’s just me and Chewster. This house has enveloped us all, and a grieving adult son. This house deserves an affectionate moniker. This is the bright home in which I live.