I believe in my dog.
I believe in the way he lives his life， and I try to emulate him. I strive to gain his level of happiness in the simplest of things. Like the way he approaches each meal with endless appreciation and even joy. While I struggle to decide what to eat from full cupboards and lament what I don’t have， he circles the floor， excitedly anticipating the very same meal， in the very same portion， at the very same time every day.
I believe in how he lives in the present. As my day fills with stress， crowded commutes and endless deadlines， I think of Duncan home alone. His day was probably boring， but he’s ready to move right past it once we’re together.
I believe in his 1)egalitarian treatment of everyone despite race， 2)creed or appearance. He never pre-judges. Before I had him， I considered myself “street smart，” avoiding eye contact with people I didn’t know or didn’t think I wanted to know. Running through Chicago neighborhoods with Duncan has changed all that. Now when people smile at us， I smile back， and if Duncan stops to say hello I stop and greet them， too.
I never had a dog before； I got Duncan at the urging of a friend who had probably grown as tired of my 3)bachelor behavior as I had. My long work nights and weekends always ended with a lonely run， a 4)bourbon or two， or a phone call to someone I didn’t really listen to. All I talked about was me and what was wrong with my life. My friends stopped asking me out because I was always either at work or talking about work.
I had dates with women who would mistakenly think I was loyal to them but I never returned their calls or thanked them for the cookies they left on my doorstep. I was what some people would call “a5)dog”—a bad dog. Not one person depended on me， nor I upon them. One Sunday I woke up at noon， and I suddenly noticed how silent both my house and my life were. I realized I couldn’t expect any valued relationship unless I created one first. So I got Duncan.