There is a healthy handful of reasons as for why we chose Green Phoenix Farm Products as a farm name.

They don’t include a pot growing operation, let’s just get that out of the way. And I won’t jump in on the more personal relevancies, not just yet. But a good one to start with includes a sweet mannered old pup that was dumped on our doorstep by her neglectful owners.

It was a cold morning in early March, the snow was tempting to fall, and COVID had just hit the news. I looked out the window, and saw a little dog sitting in our yard. Now, we’re not dog people. We like dogs, and dogs like us, but we don’t want dogs. The barking drives me crazier than it does my husband, granted, but we’ve agreed on no dogs. All the same, I went out, cautiously. From a distance, I could tell she had a nasty wound on her left shoulder, and when she saw me, she snarled and growled. Recalling the recent story about a local rabid skunk with bloodied injuries, I came inside, checked that our cats were cozied up somewhere, and hurried to find my husband. “I think there’s a rabid dog outside”, I warned him.  “You think so? I’ll check it out”, he said, surprisingly calm.

Coming back in, he reassured me that she wasn’t rabid, but something was definitely wrong with her shoulder. I went out to get a little closer. It was beginning to snow, and she had started digging a hole around her, presumably to stay warm in. All I could think about was that song, “Diggin’ my grave” by William Elliott Whitmore, a recent Pandora find.  I had brought a bowl of cat kibbles soaking in venison broth. She relaxed when she could smell it, and nestled into the dirt. Closer inspection revealed the injury to be a very large tumor, the size and shape of a pork chop.  I immediately imagined her huddling close to the side of a small outdoor structure for years, probably with other dogs as watch outs, being fed slop and cheap kibble, breathing in heavy chemical-laden air, slowly growing this terrible sight, forcibly ignored by her people, until it got so bad a family friend took the dog away and dropped her off on our backroad to wander to her death or get hit by a car. Who knows, just a feeling. Plus it wasn’t the first time this happened – random people had ditched their unwanted pets on this road before.

Taking pity, we gently encouraged her inside the shed we stored our chicken feed in, and went to go get groceries. On the way, we stopped at a local vet to make an appointment, and grabbed her some nicer kibbles on the way back. The next day, the sun was shining, the snow had stopped, and we had a pile of Chinese privet that had gotten about 15 feet wide and 8 feet tall or so. It had taken over an acre or two of woodland and stream side, so we had been pulling out the hundreds of seedlings and small bushes by hand for a week. They seem to suck moisture out of the ground, leaving the surrounding trees thirsty and sick, the ground parched. They’re one of the first plants to leaf out in spring, making it easy to spot and pull them.  It seemed a good time to burn the pile, though I was distracted by the pup. She looked like a dachshund-husky mix, oddly enough. We usually handled brush fires together, and had never had an issue. While Sam was raking back leaves and brush from around the pile, I was busily preparing some softened food, and setting up for a warm dog bath, thinking it may be a pleasant experience for her. Side note, working as a dog bather was my weekend job in high school, so giving the cats bimonthly baths is normal for me.
Somewhere in this flurry of time, the fire got started, and it kept going. In a matter of minutes, it had spread through and across the valley we had it in, and was licking in every direction. From the house, I saw the flames jumping higher than they should’ve, so I left the pup cozied with some food, grabbed a shovel, and ran over.  Thinking there was a chance of containment, I was successfully beating back flames and embers from reaching some high dry grass,  feeling quite proud and capable. Then I turned around to look for my husband, and saw that a wall of flames had crossed the field and reached the thick and overgrown tree line. This is when I panicked, and started yelling for him. Fortunately he had already reached the neighbors’ house to call 9-1-1, as our landline decided not to work that day. They were all standing outside, watching this fantastic display, including lil’ ol’ me comically beating back a 10 foot square amid acres of flames.
Fortunately, the fire departments from the surrounding districts were able to arrive quickly, and prevent any property damage to any neighbors.  Even our property was alright, as the land we had been able to cultivate wouldn’t support fire with its green lushness, protecting all the fruit trees,  winter crops, and our house. Apparently, there had been several other wildfires that day, all in that small window of time. A glitch.

After it all settled down, with the blackened hillsides still crackling with glowing embers, we took a quiet walk. Here and there, small fires still danced, nestled in tree roots or holding onto the end of a charred stick. We stomped them gently, praying thanks under the full moon.

We went back inside, completely exhausted. I can’t remember what I made for dinner, or what happened in the next few days. I do remember that pup walking outside, tromping slowly through the black and fresh green, sitting and staring out with a strange sense of peace and satisfaction.

It was a bittersweet thing, the vet visit, though I was ready for it. I had already heard the sickness in her lungs, felt her shake with pain when my hands neared her outer wound. I didn’t want to imagine how long she’d had that tumor, that pain. I put calendula oil on it the night before, reapplying it as needed. It seemed to help a little. I requested euthanasia, ignoring the part of me that remembered my own little dachshund puppy from my childhood and wanted her to be okay. A quick examination told the doctor what I already knew, and the decision was carried out. I brought her back and buried the sweet pup here. Oof, it still makes me cry to type this one out, sorry folks. But there you go. One of the reasons for our name.