16. The Love of Wild Dogs

02 MARCH 2025 // SEASON: WINTER // MOON: NEW // RECIPE: RED LENTILS

We’ve been back in New York for something like two weeks, now. First, spending time in the city with friends. We braved the concrete cold to have our fingerprints taken— such a curious and interesting thing, really— then, sent off the requests for the background checks needed for our Spanish visas.

I found it disorienting, being greeted by the glistening ice covered landscape in the Hudson Valley, candy coated and uniform like something out of a storybook, only slippery and splintery and shivering. A homemade cookie and a train pick up from friends warmed our welcome, ever so slightly helping me ignore the way that the shift in temperature from the warm, moderate Mediterranean to the cold of New York was activating and destroying my skin.

I unpacked the suitcase straight away just to ground myself physically. I purchased every green herb at the grocery store, a bunch of good mushrooms, some dried beans, silken tofu, a tub of yogurt, lentils, and a few lemons. I made a nourishing pot of chicken stock. An emblem of home, an everlasting gift, still simmering.

The thick ice in the field is melting into puddles under gleams of sunlight, my body is covered in a slick balm, while mentally— I keep wondering about "our" wild farm dogs back in Spain. How are they doing? Where do they wander out there in the sprawl of olive trees without as little as a plan?

On closing day, back in November, appearing from out of nowhere was this scared little wiry-haired farm dog. Tail-tucked and wagging, squealing sadly as she whimpered and begged for what seemed like food. She was so jumpy and nervous, dodgy and persistent— but too timid to be pesky.

“I think she is a mama,” I said to Gordon, while crouching down to try to get her to warm up to me. Her body showed signs of nursing. We quickly gathered a few snacks that seemed suitable enough to share. She approached the food cautiously, snatched it up, then darted away into the distance— disappearing under the labyrinth of branches. Where was she going, I wondered…

When we arrived back at the property nearly two months later, at the beginning of January, we were surprised when we heard her whistle of a cry singing out as we began to unpacked our rental car. She was back! She’d made it another few months!

The name, “Whimpers,” quickly began to stick, as she was always showing up in tears. This time, she looked, perhaps, even scrawnier than she had the few months prior— her ribs were showing through her fur. We shared more food, then set off to get some kibble, for the case of her return.

I am not much of an animal person, but I fell in love with Whimpers the moment we met her. The deep in her eyes. The kind way she begged. Her nervous bravery. Her flighty little self. Her wild, (un)trusting ways. Her untold story. A kindred spirit.

When we first shared about Whimpers on Instagram, so many replied telling us to keep her, or asking if she was ours now… What were we going to do? And, I wasn’t sure of the answer. It seemed obvious that we would help her, feed her. What else could we do? Coming and going, here and then not, she’s just not a dog you can hold. She is a holder of many homes.

I wondered for a moment if I should call a vet, or if there were animal services in Spain I should locate— especially after she returned one morning with puppies… But, hesitated— unable to imagine having her picked up only to be caged, taken to a pound, and put down. Not to mention— she runs lightning fast— fast enough to catch a rabbit, which we saw her proudly do one afternoon after a few good meals of kibble.

I can’t imagine how she’s been treated in the past, she is skittish and seems traumatized, while still needy. For weeks she kept her distance, until one morning after we fed her and the pup she had at her side, she came in close enough to welcome a momentary head scratch. Before continuing on her way, she slyly licked the back of my hand, as if to say thanks.

Whimpers (and her pups) belong to the wild. They belong to nature. To the pits blanketing the ground of our luck of olive grove land. We have offered nourishment. We have taken care. But, we cannot not cage them or take them as our own.

It was easy to feel as a first impulse, fear and worry. For me, that is the catch. I haven’t spent much time around wild dogs. I’ve never really known a dog that belonged to itself, never learned from that non-attached freedom. Honestly, I’ve always struggled, some, with trust. Trust of love, trust of life… Were the dogs ok, I wondered? Who was looking out for them? How had they made it this far? Did I need to travel back to Spain with flea medicine? How can we be so attached while so unattached? How do we love, wild?

Step one: release. “Whimpers the wild dog” is a survivor. She’s made it this far and free. And, what’s so great about loving her is that she asks us to trust her instincts and that she’ll be ok. Things will be ok. She’ll live. Undue, filthy and wandering, her tail wags on. Mi maestro.

It’s been such a special part of making home in Spain— having Whimpers and her pups there to play with and enjoy. When Whimps showed up, we took it as a great sign of life welcoming us. And, when she came back with the babies, it was hard not to fall into the hope it was some kind of foreshadowing.

Each time I think about Whimpers, catching myself wondering how she is doing, I return to thoughts of her unfettered existence—how she trusts her primal instincts and navigates the world without overthinking, trusting her senses and internal compass. Her impulses and fate. I think about the way she hungers, honors, and leads. The way she knows and doesn’t.

Making Whimpers acquaintance reminds me of what it means to release fear and allow nature’s rhythms to guide. Loving her, wildly, reminds me to unleash my heart. To allow love to be both close and free, untethered by anything other than respect for the pure and honest rhythms of life.

Back in New York, as I wait for background checks and brace against the winter chill, I carry Whimpers in my heart. Aside from her whistling asks, she is almost always quiet. She hardly barks, but strangely one still night just before we left, I heard her howling in the middle of the night. And, it wasn’t even a full moon.

I wonder what she was saying? I wonder how she was being so moved, to the point of singing into the dark?

---

Spanish Spiced Red Lentils

I brought back two beautifully vivid paprika varieties from Spain (pimentón de la Vera and pimentón picante). I wanted to scrawl down and share in a quick non-recipe/recipe how I’ve been enjoying using these magical dusts.

I love a fun fact or two— so allow me to pass along the fun fact that paprika originates from Central and South America, specifically Mexico. In the 16th century, Christopher Columbus returned to Spain with peppers. An area called “La Vera” region has since become renowned and maintained their reputation for a unique production tradition that slowly dries peppers over oak wood fire, imparting a smokey flavor that ranges from sweet to bitter to hot.

Another fun fact— because I remain curious and interested in the ways our foods are like medicine— paprika is rich in antioxidants that help protect our cells, it’s a good source of vitamin A, C, and E… it supports eye and immune health, may aid digestion and support heart health. The peppery powder is also an anti-inflammatory (especially the picante variety).