Behind the scenes: Our cast of characters

Willow is The Best Dog There Is™ - a sweet, loving animal who understands what makes us happy. She loves to snuggle and stays close when we need her to stay close.

And then there's This One, Dejah, the maniac who runs around the yard and eats things she shouldn't and seems at any moment to dash off somewhere dangerous.

The rebel. The untamed. Her own dog. We love her, too.

- - -

Dejah is the inspiration for the character of Goombah, the narrator of my Myke Phoenix story The Puppy Cried 'Murder.' After calling this dog a goombah, what I thought was an imaginary word meaning "crazy dog," it occurred to me that I should see if it's a real word. 

It turns out to mean "close friend or associate, especially a member of a criminal gang," more precisely an Italian-American criminal gang of the Godfather sort. I guess that also works; she certainly has a lawless streak.

Darling companions

I don't quite know how they do it, these beasts who give companionship in exchange for a roof over their heads and regular square meals. All I know is when I peer over the side of my chair and see them there, my heart melts.

I have assigned Willow the title of The Best Dog There Is, and although Dejah is a remarkable dog, the title stands. I have bonded in similar fashion with other dogs (hence "There Is," not "Ever"), but this bond is something else. This is the never-wanting-it-to-end bond, the fearing a day that hopefully is 6-7-8 years away bond. Willow will be 5 years old at the end of March, but I don't remember and can't imagine a time when she wasn't there to chase her blue ball or her orange disk, when she wasn't waiting behind the door to jump and say "Welcome home! Where have you been?"

Willow, Day 1

Dejah, just now 6 months old, was a longtime dream of a companion for Willow. We may have waited a year or so too long, until a time came when Willow didn't care so much whether she had a companion at all. After all, she had us. And why would we need another dog when we already had The Best Dog There Is and center of the universe? But she has come to accept the little crazy one.

Dejah, Day 1

And crazy she is. She goes outside with a muzzle now, to discourage her from eating pebbles and gravels and rocks and sharp stick and mulch, as she did when she was 2 months old and headed for surgery. She has eaten a half-dozen holes in the living room carpet while we weren't looking. We were grateful to find a golden retriever breeder who sold her for an affordable price, because we've needed the money to cover the extra expense she has incurred. 

I don't know how they do it. I just know that days when I can sit home and type on my computer as they stand by (well, actually, as they lay by much like in that top photo) are the better days, and my heart aches a bit on days when I leave them behind. As John Sebastian wrote, they'll never be abandoned, love will always light our landing, and I can depend on them.

Lessons from our pooches in living life to its fullest

Willow The Best Dog There Is™

My friend Wally Conger writes about his furry friend Cheyenne's unceasing enthusiasm for eating the same kibble every day for years.

I think if we pay attention, our canine companions teach us many things about making the most of our finite time on this planet.

Wally had one of those a-ha moments while preparing the meal for Cheyenne the other day:

Don’t you wish you could harness her kind of passionate eagerness for each day?

Because as someone whose name I’m too lazy to look up once pointed out, expectancy is the atmosphere for miracles.

Even the little day-to-day stuff you take for granted can bring inspiration and opportunity.

Read the whole post here.

The Best Dog There Is™

She climbs up into bed first thing in the morning and presses herself into me in an insistent cocoon, moaning as I stroke her neck and licking my hand if I start to doze.

As we prepare to do her morning duty, she seeks out one of her rubber flying disks, because the ritual is not complete until she has chased the thing at least two or three times.

As Red and I absorb our morning reading, she sniffs through her toy collection. She may bring me a rubber ball to throw or roll in an unexpected direction so she can scramble after it. She may bring me a tattered towel for a tug of war. She may walk around the room with a squeak toy in her mouth, squeaking rhythmically as if singing or joining the conversation.

And once she tires of the game, she will flop on her back and invite me to rub her tummy, scratch her chest, massage her back or all of the above.

Weary from a parade of tasks that still await when I leave these four walls, I often perform my side of the game automatically and without really engaging my full attention. Every once in a while, though, Willow makes me realize she is teaching me to take a little time to play and enjoy this miraculous journey that is life.

'Are you Willow?'

"Are you Willow?"

Red and I had sat one last time with our old golden retriever, Onyah, as her gentle life passed out of that beautiful furry frame the day after Easter 2009. And Red insisted that it would be a long time before she was ready to bring another pet home. I suspected differently, but I nodded and agreed with her.

Sure enough, a little more than two weeks later, she looked over the newspaper at me and said, "Do you think we should get a puppy?"

I made a show of saying no, you wanted to take time to grieve, but we both knew that we would soon be welcoming a new member to the family. As wonderful a companion as Onyah had been, I did not object when Red declared it would be another golden retriever.

After we set a date to visit a breeder, we sat across a table one night throwing possible names back and forth. What would be a suitable name for a golden retriever?

Roberta. Isabella. Mozarella. Ziva. Toni. McGee. Abby. Kaylee. Zoe. River. No, no, no, maybe, no ...

Angel, Buffy, Willow – Willow.

Willow? What a beautiful name for a lovely red-haired puppy girl. Willow it was.

The breeder had only 5-week-old one golden left from the litter that would be ready to go home in mid-May. Before we arrived she brought out the little fluff ball and left her alone in the waiting cage.

When we entered she was sitting in that awkward way that puppies sit and looked up at us with curiosity. The breeder plucked her out of the cage and eased her into my hands.

While Red carried on a conversation with the breeder, I held her to my chest and looked down at the little puppy eyes. I completely lost track of what the two women were saying.

"Are you Willow?"

The only response was to knead my chest and snuggle into me. Something melted inside me.

I became aware that the breeder was offering to show us puppies from a younger litter if we weren't sure about this one. "No," I said perhaps a little too firmly.

Willow joined our family a couple of weeks later on May 16, 2009. I only remember two dates connected with family dogs – Feb. 7, 1959, when my parents surprised us with Lady, and May 16, 2009, when we brought Willow home.

Willow fit her name. But that's a story for another day.

The Best Dog There Is

Signs you love your dog: You drive up at lunchtime and your spirits immediately lift knowing she's waiting inside.

Signs your dog loves you: You fall on your tush in the snow and she runs from the other side of the yard, jumps on you and licks your face.

It seems clear to me now, after all of these blog posts and books, that what I really should have been writing about all along was my puppy.

Life lesson No. 46 while walking the dog

Given the option, it seems Willow will keep playing forever. Once she gets it into her head that it's time to chase a ball, she will chase and retrieve, chase and retrieve, over and over again.

And she won't take "enough" for an answer. If the ball is within my reach – and often when it isn't – if it doesn't appear that I'm interested in pitching it, she will lie in wait with her tail pointed in my direction, ready to pounce on anything tossed over her head, whining. And whining. And whining. Until finally, I reach down and toss the ball. So she can chase. And retrieve. And chase ... Inevitably she will convince me to throw the ball at least a few more times than I thought I wanted to.

Yesterday was our first walk in a new place, and Willow did her usual dance once connected to the leash. She will grab the tether with her teeth and make a show of trying to chew through it, while dancing and prancing around me. After a few moments she settles into the rhythm of the walk — except, of course, for when she is stopping to investigate interesting odors on the ground.

It wasn't long before we both were walking along the path at a brisk pace, and I reflected how good she was at this unnatural task of traveling while attached to a long rope-like device. How good she is at chasing the ball or her beloved orange disk. How well she stays close enough when we are walking our property without the leash, and how well she knows that "Willow, come!" means she needs to run to my side.

"Willow," I said, "I can't think of anything you're not good at — except maybe quitting."

And there, I realized, was the business/life lesson to be learned from the puppy today: Be good at what you do. Be good at everything except maybe quitting. It's the secret to her success.

First line of a novel - or an entire philosophy

I will know whether heaven is what they say it is if my dog is there waiting for me.

The freedom of a puppy's soul

One of the things that Willow likes to do is romp on our bed. It's sort of a wrestling match and sort of a doggie massage session. During these sessions she will either wrap her jaws around my forearm or bite down on my sleeve without actually connecting with my arm.

That's a remarkable decision on her part. It means we can play with a little more rough-housing because we trust each other not to cause harm. We both know that as the one with sharper teeth, Willow could shred my arm to pieces. We both know that as the larger beast, I could probably inflict some significant damage on her. But we choose to play in a way that avoids those things.

There is a philosophical theory that the difference between a human and an animal is that a human has a soul and the ability to know and choose right from wrong. But if Willow does not possess these qualities, how does she know not to chew my hand off? How does a beast with no soul develop the ability to play, and play safe?

No, this is a special creature with a sense of whimsy and a spirit of joy. Perhaps it's a stretch to conclude that my companion is a gentle soul based on the observation that my hand remains attached to my wrist. But I reject the notion that there is no soul behind those devoted eyes.

The joy of joy

I enjoy joy. Embracing the thrill of living in all of its colors feels delightful. When joy is the default condition of the day, it’s a banner day.

Willow, our home’s golden retriever companion, is a remarkable example of how to live a joyful life. At 2 years old, she seeks out joy with the curiosity of a child and the wisdom of the joyous.

When I follow her lead, I achieve an unmatchably warm and peaceful contentment. Therefore, any time I am in her sphere of influence, I make sure I throw her ball or her orange disk, rub her belly, hug her with all my strength, or whatever else the moment requires.

This late winter and early spring in Wisconsin have been short on moments of joy. An 18-inch snowfall on the third day of spring will put a damper on almost any mood, and the ghastly political puppet theater now in progress is so tiring that I will mention it here only to make my point.

But Willow has no such shortage. She pranced across the snowdrifts like a miniature whitetail deer, she plays hide-and-seek with the blue ball and whines impatiently when I haven’t found it yet, she is oblivious to the puppet theater, and she comes to me frequently with a look that seems to say, “Relax. Life is joyful. Just live it.”

And so I choose to raise my head and lift my spirits. They say when you have no control over externals, you still have a choice over your internal reaction. The choices are to laugh or to cry; I choose to laugh. The choices are grumbling through my work or pausing frequently to play with Willow; I choose the puppy. The choices are to sink into the mud or embrace the joy of the soaring eagle; I choose the sky.

I enjoy joy. And for my own mental health, as often as I remember, I choose joy.