Priorities and a Blonde Puppy

Hunched over my desk, I held the phone in a death grip as one of my editors and I debated how to avoid a nuisance lawsuit from, honestly, a big nuisance. Usually, these fights energized me, but my patience was wearing thin.

We were on a tight deadline to decide what words to publish when my office door opened briefly and then closed again. I turned around and saw a little yellow dog sniffing the floor. She looked up and wagged her tail.

“I have a puppy in my office,” I blurted out to my colleague.

Instantly, his voice softened. “Well, you take care of that, and I’ll follow up with the lawyer,” he said. “Talk to you soon.”

As I looked up, I saw my husband’s gleeful face in my office window. The guy who was going to “look at a litter of puppies” today. The guy who is a giant puppy himself.

As I bent down to meet the pup, he burst into my office.

“Are you surprised?”

I scooped the dog into my arms and snuggled her fur.

“What are you doing? It’s the Tuesday after Labor Day, and the whole world just went from zero to sixty after the summer break.”

“Well, she was the only puppy left. Even her mother had gone home,” he pleaded as he stroked her fur. “I couldn’t leave her there.”

Aware that the clock was ticking, I walked into our production area with the dog still nuzzled into my neck. My goodness, she was sweet!

“Guys, it looks like we’re going to have to extend our press time,” I announced.

As the team turned, they said in unison, “A puppy!” A call to the press generated the same response. “Well, if you have a new puppy there, we will wait!”

With the pressure off, the pup named Puck circulated through the office. Her initial impact would then ripple through my life in unexpected ways.

Two weeks later, the twelve-pound bundle was in my care as my husband went away on a boys’ weekend. I was booked to cover a series of events, but I slipped home in-between to let Puck and her tiny bladder outside. Each time, she greeted me with grateful kisses.

Later in the day, I headed to my final assignment: a powwow forty minutes north of my home. It was a hot day, and I parked far from the ceremonial grounds due to the large crowds. As I trekked in, I began to question my priorities.

Here I was, miles from home, among strangers, to take a few photos that would fill part of a page days from now, long after anyone who was interested would have shot and shared their own. No one cared if I was there, but a little dog waited at home for me to enjoy more of this beautiful summer day.

As I rushed home afterward, I felt incredibly guilty about my day’s choices. Then, I faced a terrifying night that reinforced my doubts.

Just before bed, we went outside for a final pee break. Something caught Puck’s eye, and being a Lab, she pounced on it with her mouth. As she spit it out, her mouth began to foam, and she shook her head to try to clear it.

She had grabbed a toad, which responded by exuding venom. For larger dogs, this wouldn’t be a problem. However, for a fourteen-week-old baby, the dose was toxic.

Over the next eight hours, Puck puked, experienced diarrhea, lost control of her bladder, and drooled uncontrollably. Over and over again. I could only give her water and try to comfort her until the poisons left her body.

By daylight, I was covered in sticky bile and saliva, but Puck was still alive. She awoke with her tail thumping and brought me a tennis ball.

Suddenly, the priorities in my life became crystal-clear. I wanted to be home. I wanted to play with her and my older dog. Why was I making the outside world a greater priority every day? Clearly, newspapers could go out into the world without me. Deadlines could bend.

It took the brown eyes of a tiny dog to show me this revelation.

I wasn’t the only one she had converted. Our ten-year-old black Lab Maggie had struggled with hip dysplasia for years. When Puck curled up against her on the floor, Maggie heaved herself up and moved to another spot with great pain. Oblivious to this slight, Puck popped up and lay down beside her again.

After a while, Maggie just sighed and gave up. However, within a few weeks, she was enlivened by gentle games of tug of war. Puck would bring her a toy and pull on it without hurting the older dog’s joints. After all, the little dog didn’t create that much resistance.

Maggie lived two years longer than we expected. And we suspected our sweet puppy had helped Maggie rediscover her love of play, too.

As for me, I started to negotiate my exit plan from my stressful job early in the new year while taking off more personal time. It took a while for the details to fall into place, but I resigned before the following summer.

It felt amazing to clean out my office and turn over my keys. As I carried out the last box, I turned to look at the spot where I had met Puck. My little playmate. The dog who changed my life.

(Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul in May 2025)