Shared Wisdom

Life Lessons My Dogs Taught Me

Shared Wisdom, Life Lessons My Dogs Taught Me, describes what my canine friends have offered in their lived understanding of what really matters in life.

My family has enjoyed a long history with dogs. They have always been considered honorary members of the family, consistently proving their worthiness in their iconic role as “Best Friends.” Treated right, their friendliness is obvious and endless.

What has taken time to discover is their value as sage advisors. None of my dogs ever gave me a pep-talk, offered step-by-step directions on how to deal with life’s messy situations, or even clasped their paws in prayer for me. But they might as well have, for their goodness is not in achievements but in their very nature and being.

When my husband and I moved to a small town in rural Illinois, we didn’t have a clue what we were doing. He taught basic education at a prison, read books about country living, and did all sorts of odd jobs around the place, while I took care of the home, meals, and babies. It seemed manageable. Until the morning I stepped outside and met a large and rather annoyed raccoon on my porch. He (or she) wasn’t happy and let me know in body language that would have made a wild boar proud. Then, there was the coyote incident…

I had no sooner wished for a dog than one appeared in our yard a few mornings later. A thin hound dog romped into our lives, and we promptly named him Boo, since we had just read To Kill a Mockingbird, and Boo Radley seemed an appropriate appellation. He was a friendly black and tan hound with a sweet disposition.

Unfortunately, Boo also liked to yank down the clothes I hung on the line to dry and drag them around the yard. I found that habit particularly annoying. But since I was raising two little boys and expecting another baby, trying to make well-balanced meals, keep the house somewhat clean, and figure out the mysteries of planting, weeding, and harvesting a garden when my hands were full and my back hurt, annoyance was becoming a major factor in life.

One morning, as I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, I distinctly remember watching Boo tug the laundry off the clothesline once again, sending my frustration levels through the roof. I asked God why such a lovable dog was so determined to drive me crazy. An inner response: Deal with it. I had no alternative. Ignoring the dog’s behavior certainly wasn’t doing our laundry any good.

During those early years with Boo, while raising my growing family, I discovered that lovable did not mean everything was allowable. I didn’t need to act angry, though I certainly felt anger when life’s rips and tears showed up in clothes and personalities. My patience and my abilities had limits. I couldn’t just be nice and hope Boo would realize that dragging clean clothes over the yard didn’t work well for me. After attempting various creative ways to combat the dog’s predilection for attacking innocent clothes, I gave up my fantasy and prioritized a dryer.

I had wanted to save money and prove my worth as a country woman by showing that Laura Ingalls Wilder wasn’t the last of her breed. But I lived in a different era with vastly different expectations, more kids to manage, and a host of tools at my disposal. The image I was trying to live up to was in my head. But it wasn’t really me. Without saying a word, Boo had proved the absurdity of my inner vision. Boo grew out of his puppy stage and became a dog of good sense who kept raccoons off the porch and coyotes at a proper distance. Thankfully, he lived a long and worthy life.

Sheba arrived one day when my second daughter was swinging in the play yard out back. A small Labrador puppy, Sheba was as scared of the kids as they were startled by her sudden appearance. But with her glossy black fur covering a heart of gold and loyalty that knew no bounds, she became a warrior whenever an intruder or sad spirits threatened.

Like a loyal knight of old, Sheba would trot at my side when I went for a walk. No matter how old and tired she became, she knew her duty, and her faithfulness proclaimed a steadfast spirit. When Sheba became arthritic, she struggled to rise, and my heart ached each time she insisted on following me. Through her long life, she lived endurance in a palpable manner that stripped my pride down to its bones and taught me the value of just showing up, even when it hurt.

Contrary to most of the dogs who appeared at our place almost by magic, we sought out one special pup. For my son’s birthday, I thought he might want a dog of his own, so we followed an advertisement to an Amish farm south of Vandalia and picked up a collie, which he promptly named Clare.

Clare’s calling wasn’t in saving the place from dangerous clothes or trotting faithfully at my side; her obsession centered on herding anything and everything, even cars going down the road and birds in the sky. Her enthusiasm knew no bounds. If it could move, she would try to corral it. As soon as my son came home, she would leap into action and bark at the apple tree, circling around, her attention on the flighty birds in the top branches, showing everyone that she was on the job, arranging the world as it should be.

When I am convinced that my efforts aren’t paying off, that I’m not accomplishing anything, one look at Clare as she chases a squirrel back up a tree or zooms in circles as the geese fly by overhead, I marvel at her happiness in attempting the impossible, undaunted by past failures. Not giving up is her true super strength and, in that, she inspires me.

There were many times when my spirits dragged, weary with disappointment, fear, and despondency. More than once, I have been convinced that I wasn’t the right woman to raise a large family, teach anything—especially not kindergarten through high school—manage a home, deal with complicated family relationships, or survive the mind-numbing tragedy of death’s unexpected grip on family and friends. Life is not just hard; life is too hard. Much too hard.

But my dogs have shared their wisdom, not in words but in lives well spent. They aren’t high achievers, super brilliant, or amazingly gifted, but they have lived virtues I needed to learn: the humility of knowing my limits, to be myself and not grow angry over a failed illusion, to show up in my honest role even when it hurts, and to follow my God-given instincts, trying again, despite past failures.

Endurance is not a willed decision; it is a gift to be accepted. A power bestowed from above. So long as my heart beats, I can endure until this human road turns the bend, where Boo, Sheba, Clare, and all my faithful friends will trot at my side on a happier journey that will never end.