Pawspose
Pepper Scott
Terry and I picked up A Dog’s Purpose because the dog on the cover looked an awful lot like our Sammie. At the time, Sammie was our only child.
Well, our only child with four legs, a waggy tail, and absolutely no interest in ever getting a job.
Sometimes we called her our Sweet Princess.
Needless to say, we loved loved loved Sammie.
Terry especially loved the little line on the cover that called the book “A Novel for Humans.” He laughed when he read it and said, “Of course it’s for humans. We are just never good enough to deserve dogs. We just have to keep on learning.”
That was Terry.
He somehow knew how to talk to dogs. I don't mean with words, although he certainly had plenty of those. He just had a way of understanding them. Dogs seemed to recognize something in him. They trusted him. They followed him. And, quite frankly, they probably knew he was a much better person than the rest of us before the rest of us caught on.
In our family, Terry was the center of the dog's universe during the day. I worked all day, even though I worked from home, so my presence was apparently not nearly as exciting as I imagined it was.
When my workday finally ended, it was usually right around the time Terry's energy was running low. He would settle in front of the television to rest, and somehow, without anyone having to explain the arrangement, the dog knew.
It was my turn.
Suddenly, that waggy tail would appear beside my feet.
Then the dancing would begin.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
A little look.
A little sigh.
Perhaps a gentle reminder that I had been sitting there long enough and there were miles to walk.
Apparently, my workday was over, but hers was just getting started.
So off we went.
We walked miles and miles around the neighborhood. We picked wildflowers. We watched the seasons change. Sammie said hello to every single soul we encountered, whether they had two legs or four.
Especially four.
She had no concept of a stranger.
Every dog was a friend she simply hadn't met yet.
Every person was someone who clearly needed to know her.
And somehow, life became very simple.
There were walks.
There were flowers.
There were dogs.
There was Terry.
There was me.
There was the quiet, ordinary beauty of a life that didn't need much more than that.
Terry and I always credited our fur babies for so much of the peace and happiness in our home. They gave us reasons to get up, reasons to go outside, and reasons to laugh at things that probably wouldn't have been nearly as funny to anyone else.
They taught us that love does not have to be complicated.
Sometimes love is simply knowing when someone needs a walk.
Sometimes it is a warm body pressed against your leg.
Sometimes it is a wagging tail insisting that you stop whatever you are doing because, really, the world is waiting outside.
And sometimes, I think, it is knowing exactly where you belong.
I know Terry has been welcomed with open paws by every dog who went before him.
I can picture it.
A whole heavenly pack, tails wagging, waiting for him.
And I know, without guessing, that he is surrounded and loved by all our dogs now in heaven.
Because dogs know.
They always do.
And maybe that is their purpose after all.
To teach us how to love.
To teach us how to live.
And, every once in a while, to remind us that we really should get off the couch and go for a walk.
