Kindness, inherited

Part of my childhood I spent in the countryside — with our own stable and farm. Besides cats and dogs we had cows, goats, chickens, horses, all kinds of birds. And every so often someone entirely unexpected would turn up — deer, ostriches, hedgehogs. My mother professionally bred and trained pedigree dogs: German and Caucasian shepherds, St Bernards, Spitzes. The house was always full. I’m happy I grew up exactly like that. Animals teach what people spend years learning — sensitivity, compassion, unconditional joy. Just the look they greet you with is worth everything. That restless wagging tail and those honest eyes. It can’t be faked. I remember, as a child, walking home from the shop with my mother — a kitten we’d found on the way warming itself inside my coat. We’d warm it up, nurse it, find it a family. Then another. Then another. The more my mother gave herself to this, the more people brought her the ones who’d been given up on. The ones who needed special care. The ones who had to be nursed back after cruelty. Our home always found room for one more cat, one more dog, one more story.

She says this even now — and still brings kittens home from the street. Some things don't change. Traveling, I meet those in need of help everywhere. A locked and forgotten dog in a destroyed house in Crimea. An old dog at a guest house in Dharamshala. Street cats in Siem Reap who simply came into our yard. And so many others. At some point, I realized: this is only a small part of those who need help. And the potential my mother instilled in me — it's about something greater. I cannot help everyone myself. But I can support those who dedicate their lives to it — just as my mother once did. This is my way of continuing her work.