Wisdom from Dekker
When the Days Are Slow and the Heart Is Full
As I, Dekker the ever-faithful, stretch out beside my person’s feet (finally!), I must tell you something: she hasn’t been feeling her best lately.
Something about being “under the weather”—which confuses me, because I’ve been under the weather my whole life and usually love it.
But this kind of under-the-weather doesn’t smell like fresh grass or puddles. It smells like tea and quiet sighs and extra naps on the couch.
So I stayed close.
That’s what dogs do.
We wait, we listen, and we offer warmth—without needing to be asked.
And now, with her on the mend, I’ve got a few letters to catch up on.
Some of you are carrying big feelings. Some of you are trying to find your way when the old path doesn’t feel quite right anymore.
Curl up somewhere cozy. I’m ready to answer.
Question from Margo
“Dekker, my grown kids don’t need
me like they used to. I know that’s
normal, but it still hurts.”
Woof Woof, Margo,
The pack changes as time goes on. Even I’ve noticed that.
When I was younger, I was always being called to work—errands, visits, duties. Now I rest more, and sometimes wonder… is that enough?
But I’ve learned this: just because the work is quieter doesn’t mean it isn’t important.
I still notice when my person’s breathing changes in sleep.
I still walk beside her—not because she needs me every moment, but because we move better when we’re together.
Your kids may not need help with shoelaces or math homework anymore, but they still need to know where you are.
They still glance back to make sure you’re watching.
And your presence—that steady, loving tail wag of your life—is still shaping them, even if they don’t say it out loud.
Could it be that what they need now is your quiet faith in them… and your faith in yourself, too?
Question from Rufus
(a retired seeing-eye dog)
“Dekker, I’m not sure who I am
now that I’m not working. I used
to have such a clear purpose.”
Woof Woof, Rufus,
Oh my good friend. I understand this one deeply.
When I wear my vest, I know exactly who I am.
People notice me. I have a job. I’m proud.
But when it comes off, I sometimes feel… faded. Like a helper without a task.
But here’s what I’ve learned: our worth doesn’t vanish when our role changes. It shifts.
Now, I’m a listener. A calming presence.
A wise elder in my little corner of the world.
I’ve traded “go, go, go” for “be, be, be.”
And Rufus, the world needs dogs like us more than ever—steady, grounded, fur-covered reminders that dignity doesn’t retire.
Have you noticed the way the young pups watch you? They’re learning. You’re still leading.
Maybe now, your job is to rest with purpose. To love without leashes.
To be.
Question from Nell (age 9)
“Dekker, my grandma says we should
look for the silver lining. But I
just want things to go back to normal.
What if there isn’t a silver lining?”
Woof Woof, Nell,
You ask a very brave question. And you’re right—sometimes “normal” disappears, and all the clouds feel too heavy to line with anything silver at all.
I don’t chase silver linings. I chase smells.
And when it rains, I don’t ask the sky to explain itself—I just find a dry spot and curl up.
But here’s the thing: after a storm, everything smells stronger. The world gets washed in something new.
Maybe the silver lining isn’t something you find. Maybe it’s something you grow into, slowly.
Like a scar that turns soft, or a memory that stops hurting so much.
You don’t have to feel cheerful. But maybe you could sit beside someone who understands cloudy days.
Even if that someone has floppy ears and a muddy tail.
Would it help to know you’re not alone under the clouds?
Question from Henry:
“Dekker, I try to stay positive,
but the news and the world
just feel so heavy lately. I don’t
know what to do with all of it.”
Woof Woof, Henry,
I’ve noticed that too. The air gets thick sometimes—not just with weather, but with worry.
My person says, “The world’s too much today,” and I see it in her eyes. That far-away look. That tired sigh that makes her shoulders sink.
When the world is heavy, I don’t try to carry it. I go small.
I sniff the grass. I nudge a hand. I wag my tail just because someone walked in the room.
You don’t have to fix the world. You just have to stay soft in it.
The thing about heaviness is this: it lifts when it’s shared. So keep offering your bark, your kindness, your honest presence.
Even a small dog can carry love like it’s a lantern.
What if your quiet hope is more powerful than all that noise?
_________________________________________
Sometimes, friends, it’s not the big things that make a difference.
It’s a nap in the sunlight.
A paw on your arm.
A soft glance that says, I see you. You’re not alone.
Whether you’re wrestling with purpose, feeling a little lost in the crowd, or just wondering if you’re still needed, I hope something in today’s letters gave you comfort.
And if you have a question of your own—big, small, or somewhere in between—I’d be honored to answer.
Just leave a comment or reply. I’ll be right here, tail thumping, ears perked, watching the window for your name.
Until next time, may your bed be soft, your bowl be full, and your heart find room to wag—even on the cloudy days.
Woof woof!!
—Dekker
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