I don’t think dogs are accidents.
And sometimes I was only gone for ten minutes.
Minutes. Hours. Days.
It doesn’t matter.
The welcome is always the same – joy. Pure joy.
Moose is our fifth dog.
Our fifth springer.
Every single one of them has left a paw print that never goes away.
Sometimes I forget – on purpose, I think – that Moose won’t be here forever. He feels permanent. He feels woven into the rhythm of our kitchen, our yard, our evenings on the couch. He waits while I cook. He cleans out the pots (only the safe ones, of course). He rests his chin on my lap like a perfect gentleman.
He feels eternal.
But he isn’t.
And that’s the part that catches in my throat if I sit with it too long.
Dogs don’t get our decades. They get a chapter. A beautiful, wholehearted, all-in chapter. And maybe that’s part of the gift. They don’t waste time. They don’t hold grudges. They don’t scroll social media and compare themselves to other dogs.
They just love.
Unapologetically. Consistently. Faithfully.
I sometimes wonder if that’s why God sends them to us. Not because they need us – but because we need them.
They teach us:
- How to greet someone with enthusiasm
- How to forgive instantly
- How to rest without guilt
- How to find joy in the ordinary (a walk, a treat, a sunny patch of floor)
- How to love without keeping score
Every one of our springers has taught us something different.
One taught us patience.
One taught us resilience.
One taught us how to laugh again after loss.
And Moose? He teaches me daily tenderness. Presence. Gratitude.
When he puts his chin on my knee, he isn’t asking for much. Just connection. Just closeness. Just a reminder that we belong to each other.
And maybe that’s what we’re all really craving.
There will come a day – not today, thank goodness – when our house will be quiet again. When there won’t be paws clicking on the hardwood or a nose nudging my hand while I chop broccoli.
But today? Today he is here. And I am grateful.
If dogs are gifts from God, then I hope I am stewarding this one well. I hope Moose knows he is adored. I hope he feels safe. I hope his life is full of tennis balls and leftover broccoli and soft places to land.
Mostly, I hope he feels what he so freely gives.
Unconditional love.
And if we learn even a fraction of that kind of love while they’re with us?
Then they’ve done exactly what they were sent here to do.
