As every dog lover knows, there are countless reasons to love your dog. But on the first snowy day of the COVID autumn, Sadie and I went for a walk along Tomahawk Creek Trail and I discovered a new reason, at least to me; No dog has ever turned down my invitation. I can’t say that of any human in my orbit. Not my parents. Not my daughters or grandchildren. Not best friends. And certainly not my wife of 43 years. But whenever I’ve said,  “Hey girl, wanna go for a run (or whatever),” each of my dogs has responded eagerly – with wagging tail and perked ears. Never once has one of my four-legged companions begged off. Miserable weather? No such thing. I’m tired. Never. I’m in the middle of a project (TV show, work, etc.). It can wait. 

Ambling along in silence, alone on the trail save one other couple we encountered, I took a fond look back on all six dogs in my life and the special relationships I had with them. Two were with me for only a brief time, others spent their entire lives with me. Each had a unique personality and all amused with their peculiar antics. Each came to me in a season of life, providing me with just what I needed at the time. Each taught me lessons and gave me unconditional love, companionship and therapy. Each heard my most heartfelt confessions, frustrations and fears. None ever betrayed a confidence, passed judgment or lectured me. Each was loved by all family members. Dogs have a way of establishing special relationships with each member of their family. It’s their super power. 

Sandy, Bullet and Tammy came to me in the spring of my life, my growing up season. Sandy joined our family when I was 3 as near as I can figure. She was a cocker spaniel apparently named for her color. She was with us for the briefest of times, certainly less than a year. Bullet was a German shepherd. I was five when we got Bullet as a puppy. I remember vividly going with my dad to pick her up at the Sunflower Ordnance Works, where he worked on the guard force. One of his co-workers offered the pup in friendship. Mom did not care for dogs at all but Dad somehow won her over. I think his pitch went something like, “Betty, a dog is just what the kids need. He will be good protection and caring for him will teach them responsibility.” Bullet was protective, eventually too protective, and Mom was the one who learned about responsibility. As Bullet grew, he became more aggressive, and we gave him to a farmer.

Tammy, a Brittany spaniel, came to us when I was in fifth grade. Tammy was immediately beloved. We eventually defined our family as “we five and the dog.” We were all amused by her practice of sitting on her sloped doghouse roof like Snoopy in the Peanuts cartoon strip and of her habit of digging tunnels in the yard to create a cool summer resting place. Mom, who still loathed the idea of having a dog in the house, grew very fond of “that darned dog.” It was she who decided to let Tammy sleep in the house – as long as she stayed in the utility room. She curled up in the magazine rack rather than on the pallet of blankets we arranged for her. At bedtime, we set up an elaborate barricade to keep her in the utility room. It never worked. Somehow she made it to my bedroom every night without creating a disturbance. While Tammy loved hanging with the family at home, she absolutely lived for the hunts she was bred for. Hunting was where my special relationship with Tammy was formed. We spent many a joyful day in the field together hunting quail, sometimes with Dad, sometimes with a friend or men who mentored me in the ways of hunting. Often, it was just the two of us. I left for college in the fall of 1968 and our hunting days became very few and far between. Not long after Thanksgiving of 1975, Dad had the sad duty of taking Tammy to the vet for the last time. We were all heartbroken. 

Maggie came to our young family unofficially May 1, 1987, the summer growing season of my life. We always knew we would have a dog some day when our daughters were old enough, a point they had not reached. But fate intervened in a most unexpected and serendipitous way. My wife was hosting a multi-family garage sale, the intention being more fun than profit. One of her girlfriends needed to go home to check on her pregnant golden retriever, Molly. She asked our daughters if they would like to come check on Molly. They eagerly went. And while there, they had the rare experience of watching puppies being born. Naturally, the friend offered us the pick of the litter.

Maggie was our girls’ choice and came to live with us in early September. She was everything you expect of a golden: furry and cuddly, irresistibly friendly, eager to please. We set rules and boundaries for her. She first lived in a doghouse outside in our fenced back yard. On a cold winter’s night, we brought her inside to sleep in the kitchen. She never slept in her doghouse again. She loved to romp and play with us. I ran with her occasionally, but it was clearly not her favorite thing to do. Maggie was without doubt, the sweetest dog in my life. She was great for our daughters, displaying the patience of a saint, except for those moments when she talked to our youngest in a “low voice” after being held too tight for too long. She was loving and adaptable – as she demonstrated with our move from the Waldo neighborhood in Kansas City to southern Johnson County. We were the first occupants of our subdivision so we explored construction sites, wooded hills and a hedgerow where she occasionally scared up a covey of quail. Maggie was with us in the height of our child rearing and career building years, so I wasn’t able to spend as much time with her as I would have liked. I took Maggie to the vet for the last time on a brutally hot July day in 2001. She left us all broken-hearted.

Chloe came to our family April 16, 2000, on our youngest daughter’s 18^th birthday and in the Fall harvest season of my life. We finally granted said daughter’s perennial birthday and Christmas gift request of a puppy. Chloe was a rescue puppy, an adorable, green-eyed, floppy-eared fur ball with a tail that made the case for bobbed tails. She was a cross between a pure bred Brittany spaniel and a mix that was predominantly Australian shepherd. She was an extraordinarily active, playful and curious puppy.

One reason we got a puppy for a daughter soon to be going away to college was the belief that a companion dog could extend the life of an older dog. Chloe was not that kind of companion. She had complete disdain for our beloved Maggie (and all dogs), and likely hastened the older dog’s demise. As for humans, she would tolerate them as long as they were family members or left her alone. My wife and daughters clearly loved Chloe, but they were frequently irritated and embarrassed by her “rude” behaviors. She was smart enough to learn commands, but way to stubborn to obey them. Chloe became my soul mate. She ignored my human flaws and I never anthropomorphized her canine failings. Our shared interests were running and competing. She relished her athleticism and amazed us by snatching birds flying too close to the ground and her “bi-pod pee” in which she walked on her two front legs doing her business with rear legs completely off the ground.

We soon became the best of running buddies. We ran together most days of the week through all kinds of weather for nearly 14 years. When I did track workouts, she would line up in the lane next to me. She “got it” and always sprinted ahead at the finish line. We ran one race together – the 2007 Dog ‘N’ Jog – at the behest of my younger daughter who was volunteering for the Humane Society benefit. Chloe seemed distressed by all the dogs and humans, but when the gun went off and we started running, she got into a rhythm. We finished second in the one-mile race in 5:35, a time I could not have run had Chloe not been pulling me every step of the way. In addition to our recreational time, she spent much of her day on the couch in the World Headquarters for my home-based business. She was officially director of security for Hughey and Associates. We had brief synergy meetings almost daily and she served as my sounding board for creative and strategic decisions more often than I care to admit. Her final trip to the vet was on a bitter cold February day in 2014 with six inches of snow on the ground. I agonized over the decision, but after taking her for a brief jaunt on Tomahawk Creek Trail where we had enjoyed countless runs and then a to the track, I knew it was time to say goodbye. The family was heartbroken. I was devastated. 

Sadie, named Sandra Bullock by her saviors at the Humane Society, came into our life on July 12, 2014, the winter of my life. I wasn’t ready for a dog to replace Chloe just yet, but my wife missed having a dog in our empty nest. She won. Since Chloe was “my” dog, it seemed only fair that my wife pick the new dog. She wanted a cuddly, yet non-shedding, puppy like a golden doodle. But she was committed to finding a rescue dog – and good luck finding a rescue golden doodle. Sadie was charitably described as a lab mix, and to be fair, she likely has some lab in her. She has some border collie as well, which may explain her herding instinct and her insistence that if we go for a family walk, everyone stays together from the time we leave until we return home.

Sadie was a cute puppy with sleek black fur and touches of white on her paws and the middle of her breast. To say the least, Sandra Bullock was a long way from golden doodle. I questioned my wife about this really being “the one.” She and the Humane Society salesperson had me hold her. Of course, I thought she was adorable. But she looked athletic and I saw something in her eyes that belied her peaceful demeanor (as it turned out, she was neutered the day before). Sadie was a spunky puppy, perhaps the smartest of all my dogs, but she was incorrigible in terms of obedience. She amused us with her playful antics, with one exception; she loved to escape from the house and romp through the neighborhood. We would chase after her with treats, but she could not be coaxed once free and we were no match for her speed, quickness and agility. She would simply blow past us and give us a gleeful look. We were seldom the ones who caught her. Most often, she would stop running when she encountered a friendly neighbor or a stranger she wanted to meet. With her natural running abilities, I assumed she would become a good running buddy. I was wrong. We thought she would outgrow her running escapades. We were wrong. She is six now, and a neighbor brought her home two nights ago.

Sadie never understood the mission or training aspects of running. She simply enjoyed running free and following her nose. She’s still that way. On the trails, she is much more interested in making friends than reaching an arbitrary destination or accomplishing a distance goal within a specified time frame. We run together occasionally – usually in no more than two-minute segments in a walk/run that becomes a warm-up for my track workout. Sadie is, however, a great walking buddy. We walk together at least once a day, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes the three of us, and occasionally with kids and grandkids. Sadie is an exuberant lover of her family. She has a gregarious personality that endears her to many of our neighbors and even strangers. She’s been good for me in the winter of my life.

As a retiree and nontrepreneur open to what’s next, I have more time to appreciate nature and the companionship of a non-anxious presence. Sadie, the dog my wife chose, has changed me. I spend more time living in the moments as they come than living for a future that may or may not come. I am more patient, an attribute I once derided as the least of all virtues. I have a heightened sense of peace, gratitude and joy within me. Oh, occasionally Sadie will go nuts on the trail when she sees a squirrel, decides she needs to see the beauty of geese urgently taking flight or the rare occasion of a deer needing to be startled. But that just reminds me of what it means to be divinely human. Finding your highest self is necessarily a journey fraught with human failings. A dog is a helpful companion that allows you to see a bigger picture of what life can be. Thanks Sadie. And thanks to all the dogs in my life. Each of you occupies a special place in my heart.