In his last post of our 1500-mile ride along the Mississippi River, Monte shared his observations about love.
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Becky and Rich talk a lot about love. It confuses me.
They tell each other, “I love you,” and they both tell me they love me.
Rich says he loves riding his bike. Becky loves fancy coffee. And they tell people I love to chase tennis balls.
So let me see if I understand—Rich feels the same way about his wife, his dog, and his bike. Does that make sense?
Am I the only one who has a hard time figuring out what “love” means?
Here’s what I think. I think they use the word “love” so much that it almost doesn’t mean anything.
There’s something else I hear a lot. People keep saying that I show them what love is really about. That’s nuts—I’m a dog! But since they seem to think I know about love, I figured I’d list some of the things that make them think I know about love.
I don’t judge people.
When someone new appears, I check them out. If they’re nice, I hang around. And I give them lots of chances to be nice, because new people mean more chances to get petted and scratched.
I don’t care what they wear, or what they look like. I can’t figure out why that would matter.
I’ve observed that it takes time for some people to like me. That’s okay—I’ve got lots of time, and if someone ends up being my friend it’s worth it.
Seems like some humans decide whether they’ll accept someone before they get to know them, sometimes before they even meet. That makes no sense. How can you know until you get to know them?
I forgive.
Rich and Becky do stuff I don’t like. Sometimes they leave me at home by myself, or they feed me late. Rich takes off on his bike without me.
Today this new guy named Dick showed up, and they let him sit in MY back seat. That’s been MY seat for eight weeks, and this new guy gets half of my space. He’s a really nice guy, but I like to stretch out.
But stuff like that happens. What’s the point in getting angry?
So as soon as I can, I wag my tail and show them it’s okay. And they scratch my ears and seem relieved that I’m not upset.
Everybody wins.
I serve.
Now let’s be clear—I’m a dog. I do stuff for treats. But isn’t it cool that I get what makes me happy by doing stuff that helps people?
I like doing stuff for Rich, even when he forgets to give me a biscuit. You’d think people who are much smarter than me could figure out that it feels good to do something for someone else.
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I might be missing something—after all, I am only a dog. But that’s some of what they seem to think love means.
What do you think?