Notes from the Sideline

They planned to end her life because she couldn’t make them money anymore. No ceremony. No second chance. Just one final decision: she didn’t serve a purpose anymore, so she didn’t deserve to stay alive. Willa was a Cocker Spaniel who had done everything asked of her—delivered litter after litter, lived quietly in confinement, never complained. And when her body gave out—when it stopped giving—she was labeled “useless.” One more night. That’s all she had. When the rescue called, it was Melanie on the other end of the line. “Dan, there’s a Cocker Spaniel who just got released by a breeder. She’s no longer able to have puppies, so they’re planning to put her down tomorrow. We’re calling everyone we know. Can you take her, even just for a few days?” We didn’t ask for a photo. We didn’t ask how old she was. We cleared a spot on the couch before we hung up. I drove through heavy dusk on I-94, headlights catching dust and moths in the air. When I got there, she was standing in a ...

At our house, love comes in three forms. There’s Lewis—young, tender, and endlessly hopeful. There’s Harvey—bold, demanding, and just a little bit bossy. And then there’s Bear—the old soul, the heavyweight, the one who doesn’t need to raise his voice or even move much… because his presence alone carries the room. Today’s photo caught one of those moments where it all played out in real time. Lewis had started his “love routine.” He’s got it down to a science now: slow approach, soft eyes, tail wagging low and steady. Then comes the lean. That full-body press into your side, like he's saying, “I’m here. Are you?” It’s sweet. Sincere. He doesn’t perform for love. He just asks for it. And then—enter Harvey. Harvey watches Lewis do his thing for maybe 15 seconds before deciding he’s had enough. He swoops in, nudges his way right into the action, and starts replacing every bit of affection Lewis was getting with some of his own. If Lewis rests his paw on my lap, Harvey bring...

That’s Makenzie Hawk in the photo. My daughter. My graduate. My state champion. And one of the fiercest, kindest, most quietly powerful young women I’ve ever had the honor to watch grow. She didn’t just finish high school—she commanded it. Four years of AP classes. High honor roll. Academic cords around her neck. And a championship ring shining on her hand like the punctuation mark on a chapter she absolutely crushed. But that’s just the résumé. What you need to know is the soul underneath all of that. Makenzie is the one who smiles at the quiet kid in the back and means it. She’s the teammate who rebounds and lifts others up after a missed shot. She’s the student who’ll stay up late finishing an assignment and still show up the next morning with kindness in her eyes. She is light and gravity. She draws people in, not with volume, but with presence. She doesn’t talk about being a leader—she just is. Makenzie leads by example, by effort, by love. She doesn’t need a stage or spotlight—ex...

I came home from practice the other night—one of those long, late sessions that leaves your body tired and your mind still spinning. The kind where the echo of whistles and sneakers doesn’t stop just because the clock does. I walked into our room, dropped onto the edge of the bed to untie my shoes, and before I could even get to the second lace, he was there. Lewis. He jumped up beside me, eyes already searching mine, tail going like a little motor, that soft whine caught in his throat. His version of “I missed you.” Sometimes he’ll bring a toy. Sometimes he’ll just circle me like I’m the sun and he’s been waiting for me to rise again. But every single time, he’s asking the same thing: Do you see me? And he won’t stop until the answer is yes. With Lewis, there’s no playing cool. No pretending. He wears his heart on four furry legs. If he needs love, he asks for it. If he wants connection, he reaches for it. He doesn't care if I’m tired or distracted—he knows what he needs, and he m...

Harvey was just a pup in this photo—barely three months old, curled up at my feet, already deciding I was his person. He didn’t need much: just a soft place to rest, a quiet presence nearby, and the certainty that someone was staying. That’s the thing about dogs. They don’t care how fancy the destination is. They just want to know you're walking in the same direction. And that got me thinking. We live in a world obsessed with possible. You could go viral. You could become the next big thing. You could win the lottery, make millions, retire early. And yes—you could. But possibility isn’t the same as probability. Possibility is a flash. Probability is a foundation. One is lightning. The other is brick by brick. The trap is this: we’ve been sold the idea that anything is possible—which is technically true. But when we build our lives on it, we’re not planning. We’re gambling. We’re betting our futures on exceptions instead of patterns. We’re scrolling past the hard work, seduced by so...

Lewis was barely three months old when this photo was taken. Still a baby, really. Still learning the world by nose and paw, still unsure of his place in the pack. But even at that age, he knew instinctively where safety lived. Right beside Bear. Bear didn’t move much that morning. He didn’t have to. Just his presence—a massive, steady frame stretched across the kitchen floor—was enough. His breathing was slow, certain. And Lewis, with the tentative courage of the young, curled right into that calm. He didn’t ask for permission. He didn’t check to make sure it was okay. He just knew: this is a safe place to land. And Bear? He didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. Didn’t puff himself up or remind anyone who the alpha was. He just stayed. That’s a kind of strength we don’t talk about enough. We celebrate the loud kind. The commanding kind. The kind that stands tall and takes charge. But there’s another kind—quieter, softer, no less powerful. It’s the kind of strength that makes room. Room for som...

Skylar and I had come down to Texas to help clean up after Hurricane Harvey. We were just east of Houston, working with the Cajun Army to muck out the house of retired veterans who had lost everything. We were covered in the kind of dust that clings to your clothes and your soul. We'd been gutting flooded homes for days. The air was thick with mold, sweat, and silence—the kind that follows people who’ve lost everything. That’s when Melanie called. “There’s a shelter in Corpus Christi,” she said. “They’re out of room. A few dogs are set to be euthanized if no one comes by the weekend.” It was a six-hour drive south, and I was already running on fumes. But there was never a question. We packed up and went. When we got there, the shelter staff walked us back. They didn’t give a long speech or try to convince us. They just pointed. And there he was. Small. Quiet. Not broken—but right on the edge. You could see it in his eyes. That look animals get when they’ve waited too long without k...