I’m reading a very interesting book right now titled The Girl Who Sang to the Buffalo by Kent Nerburn. One passage caught my attention and has refused to vacate my thoughts for many days now. A Lakota man asked Kent, the author, “How come your church religion don’t talk about animals?” On the surface, it seems like a rather childish question. But is it really? It got me thinking: What animals are in the Bible? My first thought was the snake, and that certainly didn’t turn out to be a good experience. Right? This man, whom Kent had previously believed to be rather simple-minded, went on to say, “Animals don’t come to people who are always talking. That’s why I don’t talk much. I want the animals to come to me. So I always try to sit and listen.”
How profound is that?
I can’t say that I have always listened, but I hope I have observed and listened enough to learn a few things through the dogs who have blessed my life over the years.
I’ve had a dog in my life for nearly every day I’ve been on this earth. Honestly, I don’t understand how people can live without a dog in their lives. But then again, we all see and understand the world through the lens of our own experiences, and mine have always included dogs.
During my early years with Grammy, there were chihuahuas and teacup fox terriers. My strongest and fondest memory from that time was realizing that Grammy’s teacup fox terrier was exactly the same size as my Barbie horse. As such, she fit perfectly into my Barbie camper. I’d lure her in with kibble, slide the door shut, and drive her and Barbie all over the country, otherwise known as our house, until Grammy announced that it was time to eat.
It didn’t take Grammy long to realize something was wrong when we sat down for a meal and there was no Ty-Ty staring at us, begging for food. The first couple of times, she forgave me for forgetting where I had parked Ty-Ty somewhere in the house, trapped inside the Barbie camper. After that, I was in for a spanking.
Looking back, Ty-Ty was probably my first lesson that dogs aren’t toys, no matter how conveniently they fit into a Barbie camper. Fortunately for me, she was patient with an imaginative little girl who still had a lot to learn about caring for another living creature.
My next teacher arrived a few years later in Dayton.
A couple of years after I moved there with Mommy, I was attending a slumber party down the street when she called one morning and told me I needed to come home immediately. WHAT? As I walked home, I started running through every possible thing she could have discovered that I had done and somehow managed not to get caught for yet. It was a long walk past those three houses.
I scuffed into the foyer and trudged regretfully up the stairs. Then, to my complete amazement, when I opened the door, a tiny gray Schnauzer puppy came flying out at me. It was early December, so we named her Niki in honor of St. Nicholas.
Niki was the first dog for whom I had direct responsibility. It was up to me to get up each morning and take her outside to potty. I fed her breakfast and dinner and took her out each evening for her final potty break.
Niki was never the sharpest knife in the drawer, though. Looking back, Mommy and I didn’t have much experience raising and training a puppy either. I’ll give Mommy credit. She signed us up for basic obedience school. I was too young to handle Niki myself, but Mommy insisted that I attend so I could practice with her when we got home.
The problem was that Niki was not particularly smart. I mean, seriously…not smart. She was the only puppy who failed basic obedience school. Twice. How is that even possible?
I imagine these days we would have at least received a participation certificate. Back then, though, we got the equivalent of, “Nope! She failed. Try again.” WOW! How embarrassing! Niki was a good dog, but she certainly challenged us.
We kept her in the bathroom while we were at work and school. One day she pulled the shower curtain down and shredded it. On another day she did the same thing to the window curtains. She dug up the linoleum flooring and ate portions of it several times. And on particularly bad days, she would pee and poop, run through it, and spread it as high up the walls as she could reach.
Then there was Thanksgiving.
On the one Thanksgiving that we convinced Grammy to come to Dayton; Niki climbed onto the dining room table and ate the entire apple pie Mommy had made. It was terrible and hysterical at the same time. We walked into the room and found her turning toward us, her face covered in sliced apples and bits of homemade pie crust.
In hindsight, I can imagine other families might have gotten rid of her. That thought never crossed our minds. Mommy and I accepted Niki and kept hoping for the best because she was family, and you don’t just give up on family.
Looking back now, I realize that may have been one of the most important lessons I ever learned. If you bring a living, breathing creature into your home, it’s for good, not just until it becomes inconvenient or becomes a nuisance.
Niki taught me that family isn’t something you abandon when things get difficult. She also taught me that love isn’t dependent upon perfection. Thank goodness, because if perfection had been the requirement, she never would have qualified.
After we divorced John, Mommy brought home a Westie puppy, much to my dismay. She worked full-time, and I was in high school with all the social activities that came along with that. The last thing I thought we needed was another puppy. Fortunately, Heidi and Niki got along well, and it didn’t take long for all of us to feel like a family. Unlike Niki, Heidi blended into our lives with ease. She was just easy.
Where Niki had been a tiny force of chaos wrapped in fur, Heidi seemed determined to make us look like competent dog owners. Niki and Heidi became the new normal for Mommy and me, especially after getting away from John. We were both busy, but we shared the responsibility of caring for the two pups. It was simply a happy time in our lives.
And while I didn’t recognize it then, I was continuing to learn important lessons. I was learning how to take responsibility for another life, how to put their needs ahead of my immediate wants, and perhaps most importantly, how to love something unconditionally and never give up on it.
By the time I left home, dogs had already taught me responsibility, patience, and commitment. What I didn’t yet know was that other dogs dog would teach me something entirely different.
The only time I was truly dogless was during the couple of years I spent living in the dorms after joining the Air Force. But as soon as I got my own place, I bought a black miniature schnauzer from a German breeder.
In Germany, dogs are pretty much allowed everywhere. They are incorporated into everyday life and are generally very well trained. Jodi and I quickly fell into that routine, which fit perfectly with my German friends and my love of the local culture.
Jodi traveled Europe with me by train. I’d take her into restaurants, place her on a chair, slide it under the table, and nobody ever knew she was there until we were ready to leave. Heck, when I moved into one apartment, the landlords initially insisted no pets were allowed.
Then they met Jodi. Not only did they let me move in, but they practically adopted her as their grand dog. Every Saturday, Jodi attended Mass with Niki, my landlord, followed by a visit to the local Gasthaus for a couple of beers and some garlic sausage. This arrangement was considerably less enjoyable for me than it was for either of them.
I repeatedly told Niki to stop feeding her garlic sausage because it made her fart all night long. He ignored me. It wasn’t until they kept her while I was deployed that they finally experienced the consequences for themselves and concluded that perhaps the garlic sausage wasn’t such a brilliant idea after all.
Looking back, Jodi showed me that a dog could be far more than a pet. She was my friend. Because I could take her nearly everywhere, she became woven into the fabric of my everyday life in a way none of my previous dogs had. Friends didn’t invite me out. They invited Jodi and me.
She was also the world’s greatest icebreaker. Germans love their dogs, and they were delighted to see an American with such a well-behaved canine companion. Because of Jodi, I met friendships that likely never would have happened otherwise.
If Niki taught me responsibility and Heidi taught me stability, Jodi taught me companionship. She wasn’t simply sharing my life; she was actively participating in it. Looking back now, Germany feels like one long adventure, and in nearly every memory, Jodi is right there beside me.
Eventually, though, that chapter came to an end.
After spending ten amazing years in Germany, I arrived in Oklahoma and began a new chapter of my life. As exciting as new chapters can be, they often come with goodbyes. And I was about to experience several of them. Since moving to Oklahoma, I’ve had and lost some really good dogs.
Niki was about thirteen years old when she passed away while I was still stationed in Germany. After Mommy died, I flew Heidi from Florida to Germany. She eventually made her way with me to Oklahoma and stayed for a few more years. Losing Heidi felt like losing my last tether to Mommy. That chapter was painful to close.
But life has a way of moving forward whether we’re ready for it or not. I lost my sweet Jodi when she was 13.
Along the way, there was Abbey, a black-and-white spaniel we impulsively purchased one evening from a mall pet store. We didn’t know about puppy mills back then. Abbey was a sweet girl and was so patient with our lifestyle at the time.
Then there was Boo-Bear. Boo’s story began the way many of the best dog stories do. Completely by accident. One day, a puppy that looked remarkably like a small bear cub jumped into my truck and practically made the decision for me. I promised Marty he would be an outside dog. Yeah…We all know how that worked out. Boo-Bear turned out to be one of the sweetest dogs I’ve ever known. My stepson loved taking him camping and fishing. Boo never needed a leash because he never had any interest in wandering far from his people. He simply liked being near the humans he loved. We lost him far too soon when he was only six years old. His time with us was brief, but he left a mark.
When Heidi passed away, I brought another Westie into my life and named her Casey. We found her through a newspaper classified ad. Before she was even a year old, she began limping badly. X-rays revealed a malformed hip that would require surgery. To be completely honest, Marty and I didn’t have the money. But we found a way. When you love them, you do what needs to be done.
Our veterinarian suggested I notify the breeder about Casey’s diagnosis, so I called. I knew the conversation wasn’t going to go well when the breeder casually asked, “Well, do you want to bring her back and get a different one?” A different one? WHAT?!? That was the moment I learned there are people who view dogs as products. I simply couldn’t understand that. Casey wasn’t broken. She wasn’t defective. She was Casey. We never considered sending her back any more than we would have considered sending back a family member.
By then, the lesson Niki had taught me years earlier had become deeply rooted: Family is family. You don’t give up on them because things become inconvenient. You show up. You adapt. You figure it out.
Looking back now, I realize that every dog I’d loved up to that point had been teaching me some version of the same lesson.
Responsibility. Loyalty. Commitment. The kind of love that doesn’t come with conditions.
What I didn’t know was that those lessons were preparing me for the hardest chapter yet.
When Marty passed away, I was left with Abbey and Casey. Both were getting into their double-digit years, and I found myself worrying about how I would survive losing anyone else so soon after losing him. Grief has a way of making your world feel very small.
Fortunately, life also has a way of sending exactly what you need when you least expect it. For me, his name was Sully. My sweet angel boy.
Sully entered my life at a time when I was trying to figure out who I was without Marty. I was learning how to navigate a world that looked nothing like the one I had imagined for myself. The future felt uncertain, and some days simply getting through the day felt like enough of an accomplishment.
Then along came Sully. He never knew he had a job to do, but somehow he did it anyway.
Sully had a way of bringing joy into even the hardest days. He was equal parts stubborn, hilarious, affectionate, and exasperating. He made me laugh when I didn’t feel much like laughing and gave me a reason to get out of the house when staying home seemed easier.
Looking back now, I don’t think Sully helped me get over losing Marty. I don’t believe we ever truly get over losing the people we love. Instead, he helped me learn how to carry that loss while still moving forward. Somewhere along the way, the house stopped feeling quite so empty. The future stopped feeling quite so frightening. Life slowly became life again.
As the years passed, Sully and I settled into a comfortable routine together. The grief never disappeared, but it no longer occupied every corner of my life. I was laughing again, making plans again, and beginning to look toward the future rather than constantly over my shoulder at the past.
Around that time, I had become friends with an amazing woman in North Carolina who rescued Clumber Spaniels…I helped rescue three female Clumbers from an auction and it turned out that one was pregnant.
The puppies that arrived were definitely not pure Clumbers. We suspected there was some Poodle involved somewhere in their family tree. Keep in mind, this was before the whole Doodle craze had really taken off. Maybe the breeder was ahead of their time, or maybe it was simply an accident. Either way, Kim suddenly found herself with six of the cutest curly-haired puppies we’d ever seen.
We jokingly named them “Cloodles.” Kim eventually convinced me to take two of them because she insisted they had already bonded and should stay together. That is how Nugget and Mel entered my life. A village of amazing people helped transport those puppies safely from North Carolina to Kansas, where another group of wonderful people cared for them until I could move into my new home.
I moved into that house on a Friday the 13th. The next day, my daughter-in-law and I drove to Kansas to finally meet the boys: Nugget and Mel.
I had designed that house with dogs in mind. One room belonged entirely to them, complete with beds, toys, food bowls, and a large doggy door leading into a secure fenced yard.
In my mind, they were going to love it. In reality? Mel had separation anxiety, and Nugget was more than willing to participate in any questionable decision his brother made. Together, they excavated drywall, sampled woodwork, and systematically dismantled a doggy door. Not just the flap. The entire thing. Mel started with the flap, removed the plastic frame, and eventually deposited most of it somewhere in the backyard.
Nothing quite compares to coming home after a long winter workday, opening the front door, and wondering why the house feels like fifty degrees despite the heater running nonstop.
The answer, of course, was usually Mel. And Nugget. The boys were a huge challenge. But they were exactly what I needed. Along with Sully, they helped transform a house into a home. I loved evenings spent n the couch with my three boys. It was a happy, safe place to de-compress.
After losing Marty, everything about my life felt different. I was learning how to build a future I had never planned for and find happiness again in circumstances I never wanted.
Somehow, those three dogs created a safe place in the middle of all that uncertainty. The boys were very different from Jodi. They weren’t interested in traveling. They weren’t the kind of dogs who wanted to accompany me everywhere. Truthfully, perhaps they might have been if there hadn’t been three of them. I don’t know. What I do know is that they became my home base. My happy place.
About a year after moving into the new house, I lost Casey. As always, losing a dog left a hole in my heart. But Casey had done her job well. She had lovingly taken on the role of surrogate mother to the rotten little puppies, as I still affectionately call them. That left me, Sully, and the rotten little puppies.
Together, we built a new life. Not the life I had imagined. Not the life I would have chosen. But a good life nonetheless. Looking back now, Nugget and Mel taught me something different from all the dogs who came before them. They taught me that healing doesn’t always happen through grand moments. Sometimes it happens quietly. Sometimes it happens while cleaning up drywall. Sometimes it happens while replacing doggy doors. Sometimes it happens simply because every day there are wagging tails waiting at home for you.
And before I knew it, years had passed. We had built a life together. Then, as dogs inevitably do, they began breaking my heart.
Sully was the first to leave. At the beginning of COVID, he went into congestive heart failure. I drove like a maniac to get him to the emergency vet, only to be met at the door and told that I had to leave him there and wait in my truck. Those were strange times, and COVID had changed the rules for everything, including saying goodbye.
After what felt like an eternity, the veterinarian called and confirmed what I already knew in my heart. He was in congestive heart failure. They were giving him medication to make him more comfortable. I knew I was losing him. Still, hearing the words out loud somehow made them more real.
I agreed it was time to let him go. But as I sat in my truck sobbing, I told the veterinarian that they were going to have to let me into that building to be with him or I was going to burn that bitch down. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, she said quietly, “Meet me at the back door.”
To this day, I am grateful. There was no way my angel boy was leaving this world without me beside him. Losing Sully was devastating. For years he had been my companion through one of the most difficult chapters of my life. He had been there as I learned how to navigate life without Marty, how to build a new future, and how to find happiness again when it felt impossible.
The funny thing about grief, though, is that life rarely allows us to focus on it for long.
Because waiting for me at home were two rotten little puppies who still needed breakfast, dinner, walks, treats, belly rubs, and all the other things dogs insist upon, regardless of how brokenhearted their humans may feel.
And somehow, that was enough. Nugget was my brave boy. My social butterfly. My let’s-go-see-what-kind-of-trouble-we-can-find boy.
Mel was the exact opposite. Mel was a Mama’s boy. As long as he had his house and his person, the rest of the world could go do whatever it pleased.
As COVID continued and telework became the norm, the three of us settled into a routine. And then I made what many would consider a questionable decision. I got puppy fever. Not a little puppy fever. The kind of puppy fever that convinces you adding another dog to the household is a perfectly reasonable life choice at a time when absolutely nobody needs another dog.
I had become friends with a woman through Facebook who owned two wonderful Clumber boys that I had met and completely fallen in love with. Eventually she introduced me to the breeder where she had gotten them.
One conversation led to another. Then one day I found myself boarding a flight from Oklahoma City to Houston. I met a sweet little Clumber puppy. I fell hopelessly in love. And by that evening, I was flying home again with Julep.
If Sully had helped me heal and Nugget and Mel had helped me rebuild, I had no idea yet what role Julep was going to play in my life. I only knew that I was completely smitten.
While I was completely smitten with Julep, Nugget was less than enthusiastic about sharing his kingdom. My poor Nugget was soon diagnosed with canine dementia. He had his sweet moments and then his angry moments. It broke my heart.
For a couple of years, doggy gates became the primary decorating theme throughout my house as I worked to keep Julep safe while also allowing Nugget to navigate life in the way that made him most comfortable. It wasn’t always easy. Then again, none of the most meaningful chapters ever seem to be.
Eventually, Nugget’s health began to fail. One of the greatest gifts I was given during that time was finding a veterinarian who made house calls. When the time came, Nugget was able to leave this world in the home he loved, surrounded by the people and animals who loved him.
I was able to say goodbye. Mel was able to say goodbye. Even Julep, separated by a doggy gate, was there. As heartbreaking as it was, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
With Nugget gone, I was finally able to slowly integrate Mel and Julep into life together. To my surprise, Mel began to change. He was never particularly interested in playing with Julep, but without Nugget around, he seemed to become more confident and outgoing than I had ever seen him before.
Watching his silly puppy antics as he approached fifteen years old was an unexpected gift. He reminded me that you’re never too old to surprise people.
Of course, dogs have a way of teaching us beautiful lessons right before they break our hearts.
Eventually, I lost Mel too. And with him went the last living connection to an entire chapter of my life. The boys had arrived when I was learning how to live without Marty. They had helped turn an empty house into a home. They had been there during the years when I was rebuilding a future I never expected to have. And suddenly, they were gone. Looking back now, I realize that losing Nugget and Mel wasn’t just losing two dogs. It felt like saying goodbye to an entire season of my life.
Thankfully, Julep was there. I thank God for her. By the time the boys left, she had quietly become something they never could have been. Not because they were lacking. Just because she is different. Very different.
Years earlier, when I was looking for another Clumber Spaniel, I intentionally wanted a female. I was afraid that if I got another male, I would spend all my time comparing him to Sully.
A friend once told me: “A male Clumber will be in love with you. A female Clumber will love you.” She was absolutely right. Julep is nothing like any of my boys. She is independent. Almost cat-like. She can be affectionate, but only when it suits her. And honestly? I’m okay with that. Sometimes I think she reminds me a little bit of myself.
Unlike Nugget and Mel, who were happiest being home, Julep has become more like Jodi. She’s my sidekick. I take her with me whenever I can. We’ve traveled together, explored together, and built our own routines together. She’s like having a really good roommate who’s happy to go along for the ride, provided food will somehow be involved.
When we travel, she prefers AirbnbSto hotels; so I always search for a place with a fenced backyard before I book a trip. Twice a week she gets picked up and dropped off for daycare because she spent her first few years as a COVID puppy.
Now she spends her daycare days hiking, playing with friends, and attending monthly “pawties.”
Spoiled? Most definitely.
But after all these years, I’ve come to believe that dogs give us far more than we could ever give them in return. If we’re willing to pay attention, they spend their entire lives teaching us lessons about loyalty, forgiveness, friendship, resilience, and unconditional love.
Looking back across the years, I have been blessed with dogs who have filled many roles in my life:
Some taught me responsibility.
Some taught me patience.
Some taught me friendship.
Some helped me heal.
Some helped me rebuild.
All of them taught me something, if I was willing to sit still long enough and listen.
For that, I am grateful.
I am thankful to every dog who has been sent into my life as a companion, a teacher, a protector, and a friend.
I’m sorry for the times I didn’t listen well enough.
Thank you for overlooking my flaws and loving me anyway.
I cannot imagine my life without any of you.
And today, as I begin yet another chapter, I find myself listening still.
Julep is my best friend.
She’s my next chapter.
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