Rosy Paws

I wasn’t even going to grow roses. Too fussy, too prone to disease, too many thorns. So they warned me: they’re high-maintenance, heartbreaking, not worth the effort.

But the more I thought about it, the more they reminded me of my dogs, my Pit Bull mixes.

I’ve raised and loved Pit Bull mixes for years. Right now, I have a baby—eleven weeks old, perfect in every way. Sleeps through the night, Potty trained, gets along very with my other dog, Greta. Full of love, so smart and frankly, perfect. But I know that when he’s grown, people will judge him before he even gets the chance to show who he is. That’s what happens when you’re born into the wrong reputation.

Roses carry that same burden. It would be easier to stick with zinnias and sunflowers—bright, reliable, low-drama flowers. But roses demand patience. They need thoughtful soil, steady watering, and time to root themselves before they give you the show everyone talks about. Given that start, they can be spectacular.

Every rose plant, like every dog, has its own personality. Some are calm and cooperative; others test your patience. You can plant the same variety twice and they’ll still grow differently, shaped by weather, soil, and whatever love or neglect they’ve known. That’s what makes people addicted to growing roses—or a hard no. It’s also what makes people fall in love with dogs—or judge them. It all depends on which reputation you’ve decided to believe.

Some folks stick to the same breed because they want predictability. But that’s not how life—or love—really works. Adopt a mixed-breed dog and you learn to meet whatever walks through the door. Grow a new rose and you accept that it will teach you its own rhythm. Each one deserves the same good start: rich soil, consistency, patience, and belief in what it can become.

That’s how I think about veganism too. People see it as a restriction, a rule book. For me, it’s simply an extension of the same care I’ve always had for animals, plants, and the earth itself. I didn’t go vegan and then start caring about the environment; it was the other way around. I cared first—and veganism became the natural next step.

Whether it’s a puppy, a rose bush, a chicken, or the planet under our feet, everything thrives when we stop treating it like a disposable object and start seeing it as an individual. Going vegan, for me, wasn’t about giving things up. It was about widening the circle of what I’m willing to nurture.

It isn’t easy. Neither is raising a dog right or keeping roses healthy through black-spot season. But the joy that comes from doing it well—from giving something misunderstood a fair chance—is the kind that stays with you.

Maybe that’s the quietest form of activism there is: growing something beautiful and doing it in a way that harms nothing.

These roses are my Pit Bull mixes—living proof that reputation isn’t destiny, and that love, given patiently and deliberately, can turn anything fragile into something resilient.