Connie Long Interiors

Connie Long Interiors Closed my business and am now retired

04/24/2026

No one calls Louise Lucas ‘weak’

04/16/2026

His despicable influence needs to be obliterated. I am 88 years old so won’t be around to witness the changes that must occur in the next couple decades for the sake of US and of the rest of the world.

04/04/2026

My friend and the brilliant philanthropist, Demond Martin wrote a really personal and powerful book, and it hit the shelves at bookstores this week. Friends of the Good is so much more than a memoir—it's a deep reflection on the power of community, purpose, and the relationships that have propelled his journey forward. And it's a timely reminder to us all about just how essential those connections are to becoming our best selves. I can’t wait for you to read it, and I hope you’ll grab a copy to share with a friend, too.

04/01/2026

When our 14-year-old dog Bella passed away last month, my 4-year-old daughter Lily was heartbroken.

Bella wasn’t just our dog.
She was Lily’s shadow, her comfort, her quiet constant in a world that still felt so big.

She was a golden Labrador Retriever — warm, steady, and endlessly gentle. The kind of dog who didn’t need to make noise to be felt. Just her presence was enough. She’d sit beside Lily during cartoons, follow her tiny footsteps from room to room, and lean into her like she knew exactly how much she was needed.

To Lily… Bella wasn’t a pet.
She was home.

When Bella got sick, we tried to explain it in ways a four-year-old could understand.
But some things… you just can’t soften.

The morning after Bella was gone, the house felt different.
Too quiet. Too still.

Lily climbed onto the couch, holding Bella’s picture close to her chest like she was trying to keep her from slipping away. Her voice was small when she spoke, like even talking too loud might make it more real.

“I miss her…”

Then she looked up at me, eyes full of tears, and asked something I’ll never forget:

“Can we send her a letter… so she knows I still love her?”

I told her yes.

So she sat beside me, thinking carefully, choosing her words like they mattered — because to her, they did.

“Dear God,
Please take care of my dog Bella. She’s in heaven now and I miss her so much.
Thank you for letting her be my best friend.
Please play with her for me. She likes treats, tennis balls, and cuddles.
Tell her I love her every day.
Love, Lily.”

We folded the letter and tucked it in with a photo of them together — Lily’s small arms wrapped around Bella’s neck, both of them smiling in that quiet, perfect way.

She wrote on the envelope:
“God / Heaven”

Then covered it in stamps.

Because in her words,
“It’s really far away.”

She dropped it into the mailbox like it was the most important thing she’d ever done.

For days, she asked if it had arrived.

And I told her…
“I think it did.”

Then something happened I still can’t fully explain.

A small package showed up on our porch.
Wrapped carefully. Addressed to Lily.

Inside was a children’s book about saying goodbye.
And beneath it…

Her letter.

The same one she had sent.

Along with Bella’s picture…
and a note.

“Dear Lily,
Bella made it to heaven safely.
The picture helped me find her right away.

She’s not sick anymore.
She’s happy, running, and surrounded by love.

She still feels your hugs.
And she knows you’ll never stop loving her.

Bella was so lucky to be your dog.

Love,
God”

I don’t know who did it.

But they saw a little girl’s grief…
and chose kindness.

And in doing that, they gave her something priceless:

Comfort.

Because now, when Lily talks about Bella, she doesn’t just cry.

She smiles a little too.

Because in her heart…
Bella isn’t gone.

She’s just somewhere beautiful.

Waiting.

03/30/2026

I was supposed to drop them off at the transport van at 6 AM.

For three weeks, I had been fostering a bonded pair of Labrador Retriever puppies—a sturdy little black Lab named Tank, and his soft, cream-colored sister, Tinkerbell. They were scheduled to head north on a transport where families were waiting, where life was supposed to get easier for dogs like them.

Everyone warned me not to get attached.
“Two Labs? That’s a lot of work.”
“You’ll never have your space back.”
“It’s temporary—don’t make it complicated.”

But behind closed doors, Tank was the one who jumped at sudden noises… the vacuum, a door closing too fast, even his own reflection some days. And Tinkerbell? She spent most of her time trying to curl into my lap like she hadn’t realized she was growing bigger by the day.

They weren’t “just fosters.”

They were comfort.
They were trust.
They were healing right in front of me.

At 5:30 AM, I loaded them into the back of my SUV—same blanket, same spot, just like this moment. Matching collars. Little bags of kibble packed neatly. Everything ready.

But when I closed the trunk…

Tank let out this quiet, trembling whine.

I paused.

Looked through the rear window.

And there she was—Tinkerbell, gently licking his face… like she always did when he got scared. Like she was reminding him he wasn’t alone.

And something in me just… broke.

I sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, staring at the road I was supposed to take.

Then I turned the other way.

Pulled into a Starbucks drive-thru instead.

Ordered two pup cups.

Parked. Opened the trunk.

And just sat there with them… in that quiet moment that suddenly felt like everything.

Then I sent the email:

“Cancel the transport. They’re already home.”

Happy Foster Fail Friday to Tank and Tink.

Turns out… the only thing I couldn’t let go of—
was them. ❤️☕🐾

03/22/2026

We adopted Barnaby to die.
know that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.

He was 15 years old. A senior Pitbull with cloudy eyes and a slow step.
The shelter paperwork said “Hospice Foster.”
His family surrendered him because he “slept too much” and had trouble walking.

So we prepared for goodbye.

Orthopedic beds in every room.
Ramps instead of stairs.
Quiet nights. Soft mornings.
We thought we were giving him a peaceful place to spend his last few weeks.

Barnaby had other plans.

Week 1: He slept. The kind of sleep that only comes when you finally feel safe.
Week 2: He realized he wasn’t going back. This wasn’t temporary. This was home.
Week 3: He found the stuffed toy.

Not a brand-new toy.
Not fancy.
Just a worn, soft little stuffed animal—and he carried it everywhere.

That’s when the “dying” Pitbull disappeared.

The dog who “could barely walk” started trotting proudly through the house, stuffed toy clenched in his mouth like a trophy.
The dog who “slept too much” began waking us up early, toy in hand, ready for the day.
At night, he sat just like this—holding it close, like he was afraid it might disappear.

That’s when we understood.

Barnaby wasn’t dying.
He wasn’t weak because of age.
He was tired from loneliness.
From hard floors. From being given up.

Now he’s 15 years old.
He steals pizza off the counter.
He outruns me to the backyard.
And he still carries that same stuffed toy—proof that joy found him again.

We failed at hospice fostering.

But we succeeded at something better.

We gave a senior Pitbull a reason to hold on—and he showed us that sometimes, love doesn’t extend a life…

It brings it back.

03/18/2026

Our newest rescue is afraid of men so my husband put a blanket down for her to choose when to approach. She laid by him and used his head for a pillow.

We got her three days ago from a shelter that said she'd been returned twice. Abused by a previous male owner, wouldn't let any men near her without shaking, had bitten someone out of fear. They said she might never trust again, that we'd need months of patience and possibly professional training.

My husband didn't push. Just sat on the floor every evening with a blanket spread out, gave her space to decide. The first night she stayed across the room. Second night she came a little closer. Last night this happened.

I took this photo and started crying because watching someone earn trust this gently reminded me why I married him. He didn't move for an hour, his neck cramping, because he didn't want to scare her.

We've been trying to make her comfortable, bought her a proper dog bed from someone on the Tedooo app who makes them from upcycled materials. Found calming treats there too from a small shop that supports rescue organizations. But turns out what she needed most was just someone willing to wait.

She's still scared of most men. Won't go near my brother or father-in-law. But she follows my husband everywhere now, sleeps with her head on his pillow at night. Sometimes the best thing you can give something broken is just time and the choice to heal on their own terms.

03/12/2026

The shelter manager stopped us before we entered the kennel and said, “If you take the boy out for a walk, never close the door on the girl. She’ll panic and hurt herself trying to get to him.”

We had come to adopt one dog.

We live on a small farmhouse with a big backyard, and like most families, we try to stick to a budget. One dog felt responsible. Sensible.

But then we saw them.

Two young Labrador Retrievers sitting shoulder to shoulder on a blanket inside a kennel that suddenly looked way too small for them. Their names were Mickey and Minnie.

A volunteer walked over and quietly told us their story.

They had already been returned twice. Not because they were aggressive. Not because they were difficult.

Actually… the opposite.

They were classic Labradors — gentle, affectionate, the kind of dogs who lean their whole body into you just because they want to feel close. The kind that follow you from room to room just to be near their people.

The problem was their bond.

If Mickey left the room, Minnie would panic. If Minnie couldn’t see Mickey, she would whine and scratch at the door trying to get back to him. It wasn’t bad behavior… it was fear of losing the only family she had left.

The shelter was running out of space.

They were talking about separating them so each dog might have a better chance at adoption. Everyone knew it would be easier that way.

But everyone also knew it would break them.

As we stood there, Mickey slowly leaned over and rested his head on Minnie’s shoulder. She didn’t move. She just leaned right back into him like that was the only place she felt safe.

Both of them were trembling.

Not barking.
Not begging.

Just waiting… while people walked past deciding they were “too much dog.”

My husband looked at me.

Then he looked back at the two Labradors pressed together like they were holding the world up for each other.

He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t check our bank account.

He just walked over to the wall and grabbed two leashes.

“We don’t break up families,” he said.

So now we have double the vet bills, zero personal space, and about 140 pounds of snoring Labrador Retrievers who somehow think our bed belongs to them.

And honestly…

It might be the best decision we’ve ever made. 🐾





03/11/2026

This table cost me eight dollars at a garage sale six months after I found my husband's second phone. The woman selling it said her mother just passed and she was clearing out the house fast, didn't want to deal with memories. I understood that completely. I was trying to erase mine too.
I brought it home to my new apartment, the one with beige walls and carpet that smells like someone else's life, and I just sat on the floor next to it for maybe an hour. Everything I owned fit in my car. Everything he'd promised me was gone. I was forty-seven years old starting from nothing except this eight dollar table and the cat I took when I left because he was "too much work" anyway.
That Buddha head I found through this maker on Tedooo app who creates them from recycled materials. I messaged her at 3am one of those nights I couldn't sleep and she wrote back immediately. We talked for two hours about starting over, about building altars to the people we're becoming instead of shrines to who we were. She sent me that brass tray too, said it was a gift. I ugly cried in my kitchen over a package from a stranger who understood.
The plants I'm growing myself now, which feels important somehow. The candles I make and sell through my own little shop on Tedooo app because it turns out when you lose everything you thought defined you, you find out what you're actually made of. Last month I made enough to buy my first real bed frame. Not much, but it's mine.
My cat Sterling claims this table as his spot every morning. He doesn't care that it wobbled until I fixed it or that it doesn't match anything. He just knows this corner feels safe now, and maybe that's all that matters.

11/09/2025

How mercy interrupted my comfort and reminded me what faith really looks like.

Address

4487 Post Place #150
Nashville, TN
37205

Opening Hours

Monday 8am - 5pm
Tuesday 8am - 5pm
Wednesday 8am - 5pm
Thursday 8am - 5pm
Friday 8am - 5pm

Telephone

+16159577407

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