Roo: Joy and the Shadow

Some dogs come into your life to remind you that joy and sadness can share the same fur. Roo was that kind of dog.

When Roo came to us, he was still mostly puppy, even if his paws told a different story. He was about a year and a half old but moved like he hadn’t figured out yet where his own edges ended. He was taller than Bear, leaner, still intact, already carrying the weight of another life left behind. The pack felt it too. You could sense the shift in the air the moment he stepped through the door. But that’s a story for another day.

He bounced from the start. Springs in his back legs. He’d jump straight up, four, five feet in the air, just to see who might catch him. If you’ve ever lived with a young, large breed dog, you know. You have to be ready for anything. They don’t care if you’re braced for it. They don’t care if their shoulders slam into your legs when they come tearing through the kitchen.

What got me wasn’t the energy. It was the softness that lived right beside it. His spirit was as soft as his snout, warm and velvet-smooth, always nudging into me like he needed proof that someone was there. He’d press his side into my legs so hard I’d have to lean back just to keep my balance. And in that push, I could feel it, the question he never spoke. Will you stay?

Sometimes I’d catch him standing at the door long after the rest of the dogs had settled in for the night. Head tilted, eyes fixed on a corner of the yard like he was waiting for someone he still believed might come back for him. I’d kneel beside him, bury my fingers in that thick fur at his neck, and whisper, You’re here now. You’re good. You’re wanted. He’d lean his snout into my palm and sigh like he almost believed me.

He was a challenge. No question about it. He’d jump at me when he was too excited, claws skimming my shoulder before I had time to duck. He’d ricochet from couch to hallway to yard like he was trying to chase the ghosts out of his own head. Even in the middle of all that wild joy, I could see the sadness in him. I could feel it too, tucked in close behind the wagging tail and the big grin. Some dogs wear their shadows right alongside their shine. Roo did.

But then he’d collapse, tuck himself tight against my side, and press that soft snout in close. I swear you could feel the ache leave him, even if just for a minute. Sometimes the simplest things brought that out of him, that pure joy that didn’t care about the shadows trailing behind.

He loved carrots. I’d give him one straight from the fridge and he’d trot off like I’d handed him the crown jewels. One afternoon, he pranced up to the back door, carrot clamped in his mouth, tail wagging so hard I wondered if he’d tip himself right off the steps. He didn’t tuck his head like he’d done something wrong. He stood there proud, grin wide, daring me to say he couldn’t keep what he loved.

That’s Roo. Grief and bounce. Ache and joy. A dog who carried both and never asked permission to be all of it at once.

Sometimes I still see him at that door, carrot in his mouth, that impossibly soft snout pressing into my hand when he came back inside. He reminds me every time that it’s okay if your joy doesn’t show up pure. It’s okay if your shadows come with you.

It’s enough to stand in the doorway, good thing in your mouth, tail sweeping the steps behind you, daring the world to say you can’t have it.

May we all stand there like that. May we all stay soft, even when we’ve been left. May we all be that brave.