Dog Love

I have a great dog. It’s true.

She’s a white German shepherd and she’s not the smartest dog in the world, but she’s funny, and she doesn’t chew stuff (much) and doesn’t bark except at squirrels, other dogs, and people whom she doesn’t recognize when they walk into my house or yard without my specifically welcoming them. I left a key in the back yard once for a friend of mine to take a look at something that was wrong with my house while I was out of town, and I’ll probably never get the whole story, but all he says is “She did her job. She is a good watchdog.”

She lets the kids sleep on her.

She lets the kids play Star Wars lightsaber battle with her and doesn’t bite the lightsaber.

She sneaks into my room and steals my fuzzy slippers and sniffs them.

I can take her on long walks by the lake because she looks scary as all get-out, and I suspect if someone tried to mess with me, she would rip out their throat. Before we got the dog, I was afraid to walk down there by myself.

When I am taking a nap in my bedroom, she curls up by the door.

I’d take her everywhere with me, but she gets carsick and that never ends well, so I find myself spending more time at home, because she makes me feel comfortable here.

She makes me feel safe.

I know a dog can’t keep my cancer from coming back, but she can make me worry less about it, which, if you reduce everything to numbers, is actually better.