The Joy of Dogs

I was nine years old when we got our first dog … and I have had dogs on and off since then. My first dog’s name was Sandy — a beautiful golden Cocker Spaniel. She was a sweet, kind dog who cared for nothing but to be at our side and have her belly rubbed as much as you could humanly stand rubbing it. Sandy died of cancer and has been gone for at least 60 years, but when I think of her, I still feel love for her.  

Love never dies. It transitions from your heart to your head, where it’s safely stored for you to recall in a flash. But remember, it always remains in your heart. 

All the times I griped about walking Sandy in the cold or rain seem trivial now. Telling her to hurry with her business because I didn’t dress warm enough was selfish of me. At any moment, it’s hard to see that time spent with someone or something you love is invaluable and can’t be replaced on another day.

Dogs do what most people are incapable of doing. They can sit with you and not attempt to fix you. Dogs have no answers for you. They are patient and wait for you to discover, by yourself, what is needed. In their way, they pray for you.  

Dogs do what most people are incapable of doing. They can sit with you and not attempt to fix you. Dogs have no answers for you. They are patient and wait for you to discover, by yourself, what is needed. In their way, they pray for you. 

Like people, dogs understand loneliness and a broken heart.  Almost all the dogs I’ve had hated to be left alone. They barked almost in terror when I closed the door behind me and left them at home. Even in my home office, my dog will scratch on the door to be let in and sit near me. They need my companionship like I sometimes need theirs. 

Nothing in the world greets a person like dogs do when their owner returns home. I’ve had to beg, and I mean beg, my dogs to stop kissing me while I was feverishly kissing them at the same time. “Okay, I know you love me. Enough kissing. I love you, too.”  When was the last time your family kissed you for five minutes straight?  

I’ve been lucky to have brought home the right dogs for the most part. I also believe we chose each other, and they have also decided to be with me. 

Like many relationships, sometimes you pick the wrong one. If you have ever gone to a dog shelter and walked by the different cages, you’ll notice some dogs beg for you to choose them, some are mean and blame you for their misery, and some just lie there and stare at you — perhaps heartbroken, because you are not the person that they are waiting for.

My wife and I are on our seventh dog. We had to find other homes for two of them. Those dogs just did not fit our needs. One is still with us. The other four lived with us until we had to put them down, but never a second earlier than necessary. After that heartbreaking experience and endless tears for days, within a few months, we went and brought home another. We’ve said that when this current one dies, that might be it for dogs for us.  But we’ve said that before.

There is a saying, “Love can’t be bought.” As the rabbis say, “If you marry for money and the money runs out, you might find you don’t even like or regret the person.”

Dogs don’t care what you have in the bank; they care what you have in your heart. When walking by people experiencing homelessness, many of them have dogs. Who looks more miserable? The answer is not the dog. The dog is just as happy to be with a homeless person as in a mansion with Paris Hilton.

I’m grateful for every four-legged pal I’ve had. They were there for me during my thick and thin days — when I was thick and thin. The one we have now sleeps under the covers around our knees. One night, at about 4 a.m., not knowing it was the dog, I mumbled to my wife that she needed to shave her legs. It didn’t happen, but I’d swear I heard the dog laugh.

Mark Schiff is a comedian, actor and writer, and hosts, along with Danny Lobell, the “We Think It’s Funny” podcast. His new book is “Why Not? Lessons on Comedy, Courage and Chutzpah.”