The Things Dogs Remember

I’m 6’5” and 185 pounds, but for some reason my shadow has four legs and weighs 60 pounds.

Her name is Gracie.

She turned three this week.

It's hard to believe. In some ways, it feels like she just came home yesterday. In other ways, it feels like she's always been here my entire life. Most mornings, the minute I roll over she gets up and hops off the bed, the shake of her collar, the familiar thump of a tail against the wall when she realizes I'm getting up. Within seconds she's standing beside the bed, ready for whatever the day has in store.

I've had dogs for my entire life. My first was Becky, a black lab. Then came Mackenzie, the fox red lab who grew up alongside me. Now there's Gracie, a chocolate lab who follows me from room to room as if she's worried I'll leave for an adventure without her. Somewhere along the way, I've completed the Labrador retriever rainbow.

After nearly three decades of living with dogs, I've come to a simple conclusion: dogs care about the love you give them.

That probably sounds obvious, but the older I get, the more remarkable it seems. Humans spend an incredible amount of energy trying to impress one another. We worry about our careers, our accomplishments, our appearance, and what other people think of us, how we look on social media. Dogs couldn't care less about any of it. What they seem to notice are the small acts of affection that fill an ordinary day: the walk around the neighborhood, the scratch behind the ears, the tennis ball thrown one more time before heading inside, or the decision to let them ride along even though you're only running a quick errand.

When I was in seventh grade, I got cut from the modified basketball team. At the time, it felt enormous. Middle school has a way of turning disappointments into defining moments, and I remember coming home embarrassed and frustrated.

At some point that afternoon, I ended up sitting next to Mackenzie on the couch. She had no idea what had happened. She didn't know what team I didn't make or why I was upset. She simply laid down beside me and stayed there. Years later that’s something I will always remember.

I think that's one of the reasons dogs become so important to us. They have a way of showing up consistently. Day after day, walk after walk, they remind us that love is usually less dramatic than we make it out to be. More often than not, it's simply attention. It's presence. It's choosing to spend time with someone when there is nowhere else you need to be.

Some of my favorite childhood memories involve my dad, the dog, and me wandering through the Adirondacks. We rarely had much of a plan. We hiked because it was Saturday, and we brought the dog because of course we did. Looking back, I don't remember many of the miles or even all of the mountains. What I remember is being together. I remember the dog weaving through the trees, stopping every few minutes to investigate a scent that seemed far more interesting than the destination we were headed toward.

At the time, those hikes felt ordinary. Now they're some of my favorite memories.

Maybe that's because dogs have a way of elevating ordinary moments. They remind us that a walk can be enough. An afternoon outside can be enough. Time spent together can be enough. The things we often rush through end up becoming the moments we remember.

Last fall, I took Gracie camping and decided to ride my bike down a dirt road while she ran alongside me. The road wound through a stand of pines, late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees. Everything was going smoothly until I hit a downhill section and picked up more speed than I intended.

When I glanced over my shoulder, Gracie was nowhere to be seen.

For a moment, all I could see was the empty road stretching behind me. Then, a few seconds later, she came barreling over the hill with her ears bouncing and her tongue hanging out, running with the kind of determination usually reserved for Olympic finals.

At first, I thought it was because of how loyal she was. Looking back, I think it was something deeper. She wasn't chasing a bike. She was chasing her person—the one who throws the ball, fills the food bowl, takes her on walks, and scratches the spot behind her ears she can't quite reach herself or wrestles with her over a toy.

The one who loves her.

I think that's what dogs care about more than anything else. Not whether we're impressive. Not whether we're successful. Not whether we have everything figured out. Certainty not any social media post. They care that we show up. They care about our attention and our presence. They care about the countless small moments that, taken together, become a relationship.

As Gracie turned three this week, I found myself thinking about what dogs actually remember. I don't think they remember our accomplishments, and I don't think they remember our failures. What they seem to remember is who loved them, who took them for walks, who threw the ball, and who sat beside them at the end of the day.

Dogs have a way of measuring life differently than we do. After spending most of my life around them, I'm starting to think they might be onto something.

See you next Tuesday