On September 9th, my dog Mellie turns 10.
That sentence means more to me than it probably sounds like it should.
Mellie wasn’t necessarily supposed to get ten years. Actually, Mellie almost didn’t get a life at all. I adopted her as a puppy from It Takes a Village, an animal rescue here in Indiana. She was the runt of her litter and was born with a hernia on her belly that required surgery. The breeder she was born to didn’t want to pay for the surgery and wanted her to be put to sleep.
Thankfully, the veterinarian disagreed. Instead, the vet helped connect Mellie with the rescue. And eventually, Mellie found me. She had her surgery. She grew up. And over the years, we’ve dealt with some other health problems, including some very scary seizures.
There have been moments when I have been very aware that I might not get as much time with her as I wanted. And yet— Here we are. Ten. She’s doing well. And the tiny puppy someone once decided wasn’t worth the cost of saving has gotten an entire decade of being very, very loved.
So in honor of Mellie’s 10th birthday, I thought I would write something a little different. No therapy skill. No worksheet. No five-step strategy for regulating your nervous system. Just ten things my dog has taught me about being a person. And, for the record, Mellie has no formal clinical training. So take that into consideration.🙂
1. The People You Love Should Know You’re Happy to See Them
Dogs do not play it cool. You can leave the house for 20 minutes. You can go to Starbucks. You can pick up a PSL. You can accomplish absolutely nothing noteworthy. And when you return? YOU’RE BACK.
This is apparently the greatest development of the day. There’s something I love about that.
Humans get weird about showing enthusiasm. We don’t want to seem too excited. Too interested. Too needy. Too much.
Dogs have apparently rejected this entire social convention. If they love you, you know.
I’m not suggesting we all start jumping on people when they walk through the door. That would create several problems. But maybe the people we love should know we’re glad they’re here.
2. Rest Doesn’t Require a Justification
Mellie has never once looked exhausted and thought: I really should finish a few things before I lie down.
If she’s tired, she sleeps.
Sometimes in a bed.
Sometimes on the couch.
Sometimes directly in the middle of whatever everyone else is trying to do.
She has never apologized.
Meanwhile, human beings have somehow turned rest into something we have to earn.
Did I accomplish enough today?
Was I productive?
Do I deserve to sit down?
Could I be doing something useful?
Mellie’s position appears to be: I am tired. Therefore, I will be horizontal. Honestly, compelling argument.
3. Ask for What You Want
Dogs are refreshingly direct.
Want outside? Stand by the door.
Want attention? Approach human.
Want treat? Deploy eyes.
Want dinner? Begin aggressively reminding everyone that dinner has historically occurred at approximately this time.
There is very little:
- I don’t want to bother anyone.
- Maybe they’ll figure it out.
- I shouldn’t need this.
- What if asking makes me seem needy?
Obviously, humans and dogs have slightly different interpersonal responsibilities. But I’ve spent enough time as a therapist to know how often people expect the people around them to somehow know what they need without ever actually saying it.
Mellie would find this system wildly inefficient.
4. Pay Attention When Something Good Is Happening
Dogs are excellent at this.
A sunny spot appears on the floor? Use it.
Someone opens cheese? Report immediately.
Favorite person sits on the couch? Excellent development.
Car ride? Potentially the best thing that has ever happened.
Walk? Also potentially the best thing that has ever happened.
The same walk tomorrow? Incredible news. Somehow still the best thing that has ever happened.
Humans are remarkably good at being physically present for something pleasant while mentally attending a meeting that hasn’t happened yet. Dogs seem considerably less interested in wasting a perfectly good patch of sunshine worrying about Thursday. I think they might have something there.
5. You Can Love Someone and Still Not Want Them Touching Your Feet
Boundaries. Mellie has them.
Love you.
Trust you.
Would like to be near you.
Absolutely do not touch that foot.
Fair enough.
Love doesn’t eliminate preferences. Closeness doesn’t eliminate boundaries. And someone having a boundary doesn’t automatically mean they’ve rejected you.
Sometimes it just means: Please stop touching my foot.
This may be the most clinically sophisticated thing Mellie has taught me. Again, she has no license.
6. A Life Doesn’t Have to Look Impressive to Be Important
Mellie does not have a job. She has contributed nothing financially to this household. Frankly, she has been operating at a significant financial loss for approximately a decade.
She has no degrees. No résumé. No professional accomplishments. She has never completed a five-year plan. She has not monetized a hobby. Her LinkedIn profile is nonexistent. And her value to me is impossible to measure.
I think about that sometimes.
We live in a culture that is very interested in what people produce.
What did you accomplish?
What do you contribute?
How successful are you?
What are you working toward?
What are you doing next?
Mellie doesn’t have to do anything extraordinary to matter. She matters because she’s Mellie. Maybe humans deserve a little more of that grace too.
7. Being Small Doesn’t Mean Being Insignificant
Mellie started life as the runt. The puppy with the problem. The puppy who would cost money. The puppy someone decided wasn’t worth fixing.
And I keep coming back to that when I think about her turning ten. Because someone looked at this tiny animal and made a calculation about the value of keeping her alive. Thankfully, someone else looked at her and made a different decision. That decision gave Mellie a chance. And look at everything that came after it.
Ten birthdays.
Thousands of meals.
Walks.
Naps.
Treats.
Vet appointments.
Car rides.
Holidays.
Ordinary Tuesdays.
Scary nights.
Good mornings.
Two moms who love her.
A whole life happened because someone said: No. She deserves a chance.
Sometimes we have absolutely no idea how much life can exist on the other side of one moment.
8. You Cannot Love Someone Enough to Guarantee That Nothing Bad Will Happen to Them
This is probably the lesson I like least. Mellie and I had to learn this lesson earlier this year after losing both of her siblings.
Mellie has had health problems over the years. Some of her seizures have been terrifying. And loving an animal—or a person—creates an uncomfortable reality: Eventually, something will happen that you cannot control.
You can take care of them.
Pay attention.
Go to the vet.
Give the medication.
Ask questions.
Make decisions.
Sit beside them.
Do everything you’re supposed to do.
And you still don’t get a guarantee.
I would very much prefer a guarantee. Unfortunately, no one appears to be offering those.
Loving something means accepting some amount of vulnerability. Because once something matters to you, you have something to lose. I’ve learned that trying to avoid that reality doesn’t make me love her less. It just makes it harder to be where we actually are. And right now? She’s here. She’s doing well. She’s ten. That’s where I want to be too.
9. Getting Older Is a Privilege
We talk about aging strangely. We joke about getting old. Complain about gray hair. Wrinkles. Aches. Bodies changing. Birthdays become something we’re supposedly supposed to dread.
But watching a dog get older changes your relationship with birthdays. Mellie is not the puppy I brought home anymore. She’s changed. Her body has changed. Her needs have changed. We’ve had health scares. There are things I pay attention to now that I didn’t have to think about when she was two.
And I would take every single sign of aging if it means I get more time with her. For a dog nobody thought would live this long, getting older doesn’t feel like something to mourn. It feels like something she earned simply by continuing to be here. Maybe getting older isn’t always the insult we make it out to be.
Sometimes aging means: You got more time. And that’s not nothing.
10. You Don’t Have to Know How Much Time You Have to Love the Life You’re In
This is probably the biggest thing Mellie has taught me.
There have been times when her health made the future feel uncertain. And if I’m not careful, loving her can turn into worrying about losing her. That’s the strange bargain we make when we love anything. We know it won’t last forever. And our brains sometimes respond to that information by trying to grieve it before it’s gone. As though worrying enough now might somehow make losing something hurt less later. It doesn’t. It mostly steals time from the part where they’re still here.
Mellie doesn’t know she’s turning ten. Despite how many times my wife and I have told her.
She doesn’t know people once thought she wouldn’t live this long.
She doesn’t know she’s beaten anyone’s expectations.
She doesn’t know I’m writing an entire blog post about her.
She knows today.
She knows her people.
She knows where her food is.
She knows her favorite places to sleep.
She knows things she likes.
She knows things she absolutely does not like. (See previous statement regarding feet.)
And maybe that’s enough.
Ten Years of Mellie
Ten years ago, Mellie entered the world as the runt of a litter with a medical problem someone didn’t want to pay to fix. A veterinarian thought her life was worth saving. A rescue gave her somewhere to go. I got to adopt her. And then something extraordinary happened. Nothing extraordinary happened. She just lived. Day after day. Meal after meal. Nap after nap. Birthday after birthday.
She became part of the background of my life in the way the beings we love eventually do.
Our pets become witnesses to our lives without ever knowing that’s what they’re doing.
They don’t know that was the year everything changed.
They don’t know when we’re going through something that we’ll remember forever.
They don’t know which ordinary Tuesday we’ll someday wish we could have back.
They don’t know they’re becoming part of our memories while we’re still making them.
They just know they’re there.
Mellie has been there for ten years.
And I’ve gotten to be there for hers.
I don’t know what the next year will bring. I don’t know how many birthdays we’ll get.
That’s something I’ve learned not to ask life to promise me. What I do know is that the puppy who almost didn’t get a chance at life got one. And she used it. She grew up. She was loved. She scared the absolute hell out of me a few times. She cost a considerable amount of money while contributing absolutely nothing financially. She slept. She played. She ate treats. She occupied furniture. She established firm policies regarding her feet. She became family. She lived.
And on September 9, she turned ten.
So maybe Mellie has taught me one more thing about being a person: You don’t have to know what the next ten years are going to look like to start living them.
Find your people.
Ask for what you need.
Rest when you’re tired.
Enjoy the sunny spot while it’s there.
Let people love you.
Don’t confuse your productivity with your value.
Get older.
Take the ordinary days.
And when someone you love walks through the door, make sure they know you’re glad they came home.
Happy 10th birthday, Mellie. I’m really glad you’re here.🐶💕
Leave a comment