On Dogs

Chudley and Me

On Listening & Understanding

I’m a venter. I like speaking out loud, and always look forward to chatting with friends and family about whatever is on my mind. It’s cathartic and clarifying. It’s refreshing being able to hear affirmation—or constructive criticism—about an idea, thought, or feeling.

Chudley always had two furry, attentive ears. And while he never quite spoke back to me in words I’d understand, I knew he always listened. He was the best listener, in fact.  

There are two things, in particular, that resonate with me about this dynamic. First: one of the greatest joys of my life with Chudley was watching him learn and begin to understand the meaning of certain words. Again, I suppose this is nothing new: Dogs can associate words and actions. Yet that fact never depreciated my amazement. Consider, for instance, his name. To friends and family, he was Chudley. But to a smaller—dare I say, more special circle—he was a young man of many identities.

Chudley. Chuddy-B-Doodle-Dandy, Chuddy-B-Doodles, or Chuddy-B—for short. Chuddy Buddy. Chuds. Chud. Anyways, you get the gist. When it came to nicknames, we were fairly creative. It never failed to amaze me that he was responsive to every single one. Maybe it’s mundane, but it was something important to me. It was our family’s inside joke, and Chudley was in on it!

In that vein, the second bit that resonated me was this: I felt as if I could talk to him about anything. After all, he knew his (many) names; he understood what “Do you want a treat?” and “Do you want to go outside?” meant; heck, what couldn’t he understand? I always looked forward to keeping him abreast of everything in my life, and never shied away from sharing every detail. And after every internal monologue spoken aloud, he always had the answer. Sometimes a kiss. Other times a hug. Many times just an endearing stare. Whatever it may have been, it did just the trick.

He was my buddy. Someone to whom I could always turn.

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On Unconditional Love & Family

When I was younger, at the end of every day my Dad would get home from a work a bit after my Mom. As we sat in the kitchen, we’d invariably hear the garage door open.

“Daddy is home!” I would say, sprinting toward the backdoor, with Chudley in quick pursuit too. It was quite the welcoming committee, if I do say so myself. We’d hug, and make our way into the house for the rest of the evening.

As time passed, my excitement to see my Dad didn’t fade, but my racing did. I’d wait in the kitchen with my Mom—or maybe I’d be upstairs doing homework.

That was never the case for Chudley. He would make it back there every day, ready with a kiss and an excited tail. To me, that was a testament to his unconditional love for all of us. Yes, he’d likely spent much of the day by his lonesome and was eager for interaction. But that’s part of the point, too. No matter how long we had been gone—at work, school, or elsewhere—he couldn’t wait to see us.

Chudley was not simply our family’s dog. No, that would be a wild understatement. He became my brother and best friend—and my family’s love for him was matched only by his for us. He was a man of few needs: water, food (with a heavy dog-treat regimen), and cuddles among the main three. He could read a room like no other, and added levity and love at every turn. 

As he grew older, that love never faded. While he might not have run to the backdoor as briskly as he once did, you could see in his eyes how much we meant to him.

And I know he understood how much he meant to us, too.

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