How this all got out of hand: A backstory
It started right after the 2023 earthquake that hit Turkey and Syria. We went to Antakya with a generator to help people still trying to rescue others from under the rubble. We only planned to stay one night. The next morning, there were dogs everywhere — wandering the streets, following people, looking completely out of place in the middle of a disaster zone. We asked around, but no one could take them in. Everyone had lost homes, family, everything.
So we packed three dogs and a cat into our car — one of the dogs had to go in the trunk — and drove back to Mersin. While my mom drove, I was on the phone trying to find fosters before we got there. Two of the dogs were chipped, but no one answered. We left messages, dropped the animals at vets and homes, and went back a week later when they were trying to evacuate the Defne shelter.
That was the beginning. No name, no plan, just a moment where doing nothing didn’t feel like an option.
The Farmhouse came after.
What we are now
We’re not an established NGO. But we are, without a doubt, a work in progress.
No big-name NGO backing, no fancy monthly donation plan, and definitely not a curated photo gallery — my tech skills are below sea level. We didn’t start The Farmhouse with a plan, but it evolved into a no-kennel shelter where dogs, cats, and humans try to coexist without losing their minds.
This isn’t a government shelter — and thank god for that. I don’t believe in locking animals up and calling it care. Our dogs don’t live behind bars.
They live in a big fenced area that opens into even bigger freedom. Some go out, some don’t. Some are great with cats, others are still learning not to treat them like mysterious moving toys. We try to find an equilibrium every day — between their instincts and our boundaries — and sometimes, we even get it right.
Every day is rotation, observation, and negotiation.
The kids have their own rhythms. Morning is dog time — they get let out, fed, watered, and monitored like it’s a chaotic little daycare. Evenings belong to the cats — who come out like tiny gremlins to chase bugs, knock over cups, and definitely not cuddle us.
There’s no leash training here. When we started, all I really knew was to walk with them — build trust, share space, and teach them the land. Now they mostly stick to those same walking routes, even off-leash. They know the routines. They know where not to go. We fenced in a 2,000 m² area to better manage territory and avoid conflict with the local strays. They’re part of the neighborhood too.
There are rules. Not many — just don’t hurt each other. Don’t bully the weak. Wait your turn. They get raw bones by hand, and everyone learns patience. At night, they go to their kennels when it gets dark — not because we tell them to, but because they know. They have sleeping rotations too. It’s weird. It works.
We run this place around their needs, not human expectations. They’re not here to perform. They’re here to learn how to be dogs again — how to play, to rest, to form friendships, to trust a little. Emotional health comes first. A well-fed, leash-trained, blank-eyed dog isn’t our goal. We’re after stable, happy, personality-filled chaos machines.
This isn’t about turning animals into well-behaved pets. It’s about creating a space where they can be themselves — a little wild, a little broken, but still loved. And every day, we try to make that enough.
