Wendy Golden RMT

09/24/2025

Currently booking for this season! 🍁🍂

wendygoldenrmt.noterro.com

09/23/2025

I have openings on Thursday, Sept. 25 from 12 noon to 7 pm. Call 9026141071 or message my page to book your appointment.

09/22/2025

Accepting New clients!

Book a consult today.

wendygoldenrmt.noterro.com

09/20/2025

Call out to Vendors!!!
As a part of Esther Fest 2025, The Town will be hosting our annual Great Amherst Street Party on Saturday, October 18th, from 12-3 p.m. in downtown Amherst! If you are interested in participating as a vendor, please fill out the form here - https://forms.gle/DdbtBYHVeMetrwrQA

09/15/2025

Currently accepting new clients!

I take pride in providing a safe, welcoming environment for everyone looking to get a massage.
My goal is to help you with stress, relaxation, pain relief, inflammation, etc.

Even better, your sessions can be covered by your insurance! I also bill directly to your insurance for you so you don’t have to worry about it.

Give it a try!

Book your session today.

wendygoldenrmt.noterro.com

09/12/2025

09/10/2025

Tension Isn’t a Badge of Honor — It’s a Signal.

You don’t need to power through tight shoulders, aching backs, or constant stress. Your body is talking. Are you listening?

DM to schedule an appointment or visit wendygoldenrmt.noterro.com to book online.

Your wellness isn’t a luxury — it’s a priority. Let’s get you back to feeling your best.

09/10/2025

I was there to check cattle, but it was the dog chained to the fence that broke me. It was 2003, a late August morning at the county auction. Dust rose in clouds, boots stomped through the dirt, and the auctioneer’s chant rolled like thunder through the tin roof.

I’d been called to look over a couple calves before the bidding — routine work, nothing more.

But as I walked the pens, I noticed him.

A hound, ribs showing, coat dull, chained to a rusted fence post near the back. No water, no shade. Just a pair of tired eyes that followed every man who passed like he was still waiting for the one who’d come back.

I asked one of the handlers, “Whose dog?”

He shrugged. “Some fella dropped him off with the goats. Said he didn’t want him no more. Nobody’s bid yet.”

The words sat heavy. Didn’t want him no more.

I walked closer. The hound didn’t growl. Didn’t wag. He just sat there, as if conserving the little dignity he had left.

When I reached my hand out, he leaned into it — slow, careful, like it might be a trick. His ear was torn. His paws cracked. But when I scratched under his jaw, he closed his eyes like it was the first kindness he’d felt in years.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

The handler spat to***co into the dirt. “Don’t know. Don’t care. He’s yours if you want him.”

So I unhooked the chain.

Carried him to the truck, past the pens of bawling calves, past the men shouting bids, past all the noise of a world that measured worth in dollars and pounds of flesh.

I set him gently on the seat beside me. He curled in, bones pressing through fur, and let out a sigh so deep it felt like he was emptying every hurt all at once.

Back at the clinic, I gave him water, food, a clean blanket. He ate slow, like he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t be taken away. I patched his ear, washed the dust from his coat.

When the staff asked what to call him, I said, “Chance.”

Because that’s what I figured we were giving each other.

Chance stayed with me a long while. Too old for hunting, too slow for guarding, but he had one gift left — loyalty.

Every morning, he followed me from room to room, nails clicking on the linoleum. When I sat with grieving owners saying goodbye, he’d curl up at their feet. Sometimes he’d press his head against a child’s leg, steadying them without a sound.

He wasn’t flashy. Wasn’t special in the way most folks use the word. But he was. And that was enough.

One night, years later, I found him lying on the porch. Still as the boards beneath him. His eyes half-closed, as if sleep had carried him farther than either of us expected.

I buried him under the oak behind the clinic. No headstone. Just a collar nailed to the trunk and a prayer whispered into the dirt.

ENDING TRUTH:
I’ve spent forty years patching wounds, fixing breaks, pulling life back from the edge. But sometimes the most important thing you can do is unhook the chain, open the truck door, and let someone know they were wanted after all.

Because every living soul deserves at least one chance.

06/18/2025

Remember to make time for yourself!

06/16/2025

Book online today!
wendygoldenrmt.noterro.com

06/15/2025