Few creatures that touch human life are as versatile and inspirational as the dog. Experts in the art of living simply, dogs spend every moment of their lives in the singular “now,” neither fretting over the past nor worrying about the future. Twice now I have adopted puppies, watched them grow with my family, spent millions of companionable moments with them, and then dealt with the grief and sadness that comes with their too-sudden old age.

Having recently lost our beautiful brindle hound, Ani, to liver cancer, I am awash in memories of her many virtues, not the least of which was her typical canine celebration every time we walked into the house. It was as if she had no memory of this happening, so fresh and intense was her joyous welcome. Nor was there the least indication that she expected future departures from and returns to “the den.” There was only the quintessential Buddhist moment, at its best when the “pack” was all together.

As we muddled through Ani’s accelerating decline, my brother exposed me to a skit by George Carlin, one of America’s sauciest comedians. Carlin had a talent for cutting through the common ravages of the human condition with sympathetic humor. “It’s inevitable when you buy the pet,” he said. “It’s going to end badly. You’re purchasing a small tragedy.” Yet we take that pet into our lives anyway, trusting that the pleasures of accumulated moments will far outweigh the tragic brevity of a handful of years.

In tender retrospect, I am mindful of the virtues not just of Ani and her sister dog Martha, but of all dogs. I am most taken by their optimism – that look in their eyes that says, “Something good is about to happen.” Every jangling sound might be the walking leash. Every opening of a car door might be the next ride. This perpetual optimism reinforces the benign tension of conflicting certainties: mine, that my food is not the right diet for my dogs, and theirs, that a bowl of minestrone soup is about to descend to the floor. Despite accumulated evidence to the contrary, dogs default to optimism over and over.

It is an oft-observed fact of dog psychology that appearance and size are meaningless. What else can explain my Pomeranian’s belief that she was bigger than all other creatures, including the cows she barked at on one road trip as we idled at a traffic light beside a pasture? Or my friend’s Rottweiler pleading with big round eyes to be invited onto my lap? There are certainly instincts leading to wariness, fear, and aggression, but prejudice based on appearance is not one of them. There’s a definite lesson in that.

It is these very differences of size and breed that equip dogs for the specialized jobs they perform. Some are hunters and retrievers. Others make excellent watchdogs. Dogs of all sorts serve therapeutic needs, including assistance to their blind owners, focus and acceptance for people suffering from post-traumatic stress disorders, and welcome diversions against boredom in hospitals and nursing homes.

Some dogs, such as my two, are simply family friends and companions. As such, their ability to enjoy pleasures as simple as a walk or a donut hole, their hopeful demeanors, their optimism, and their orientation to the moment are exemplars of good living. Who hasn’t learned much from their dogs?

There have even been soldier dogs. Sallie the bull terrier puppy was adopted in 1861 by the 11th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry. She served the Northern cause in battle after battle, finally succumbing to a bullet wound in 1865. After the war, the survivors of her regiment included a statue of her in their monument at Gettysburg, so profound and enduring was their affection for her.

During World War I, a stray Boston terrier ended up first as a mascot and then as an active helper for the 102nd Infantry Regiment and the 26th “Yankee” Division. “Sergeant Stubby,” as the soldiers named him, served bravely enough to be amply decorated.

Whatever their role or function, dogs offer humanity valuable spiritual lessons.

I am a better human for having loved and cared for them. There is certainly no tragedy in that.

Renee Gravelle is a Dunkirk resident. Send comments to editorial@observertoday.com