Dog As Joy Machine

Bodhi at the Beachcomber Cafe in Trinidad

My dog Bodhi does a thing when he hasn’t seen me for a while. By a while, I mean anything more than a day, and sometimes even just a few hours. He gets up on his hind legs as if to jump up, but instead of actually jumping up, instead of placing his paws where they would logically land, somewhere around my mid section, he takes a few steps on his back legs, a little like a circus bear, and throws his front legs up in the air as a gesture of hallelujah. Sometimes he even closes his eyes as he does this, his head thrown back just a bit. Hallelujah, he seems to say, hallelujah, my mom, at last, returned.

Photo by Meri Johnston

There is no greater joy than being met this way, and the joy does not diminish over time and repetition. It is impossible not to smile, impossible not to laugh. Sometimes, after a long drive where I have done little other than worry about how I will continue to exist in a world of AI, Bitcoin, and authoritarianism, Bodhi’s greeting turns my whole day around. I hope whoever you are there is some living being that greets you in a way that makes you feel like I feel every time Bodhi greets me.

And then there is the joy of Bodhi at the beach, any beach really, but Clam Beach up in Humboldt County is his favorite. In spite of his stuffed-animal-brought-to-life appearance, Bodhi is actually 48 pounds of muscle, and the beach allows him to show off his athleticism, chasing waves, leaping over drift logs and stumps, spinning circles at speeds and levels of dexterity that would put a barrel racer to shame. I can feel my heart expand in real time as I watch him, this living being leaning fully into to all the things his body was born to do.

And then there is Bodhi’s heart, that finely tuned instrument of sensitivity and intuition. I was going to write “Bodhi senses…” but the truth is that Bodhi knows—maybe all the dogs know—their humans are going through something frightening and soul killing, the very last vestiges of an idealism (go ahead and call it denial) that a two hundred year old democracy would find some way to hold itself together. And therein lies the problem. The dreaded passive voice.

In any case, the dogs can feel us feeling all we are losing. Our allies. Every one. Our retirement savings. Our ability to speak freely. To cross in and out of our own country without fear. To drink clean water and breathe clean air. Whales. Wolves. Trees. Clean food. Vaccinations. The ability to gather in a park, as thousands did yesterday in Davis, California, for Picnic Day, without the risk of being shot.

I have always believed our dogs know us far better than we know ourselves. They can see that the current regime is hitting us, by design, with more than we can handle. So they offer us their bellies to rub. They stand at the door wagging. They hear us thinking, it can’t be that simple, this joy thing, so they stand at the door wagging harder. But it is, the metronome of their tails say, ticking back and forth. But it is.

Two weeks ago, Bodhi and I drove from Creede, Colorado, where we live most of the time, to Davis where I teach part of every year. Ever since he was a Carhart colored puppy (Wheaton terriers get lighter and lighter during their first 18 months) he took his job as copilot very seriously and continues to. This time, a big storm hit the Sierras just as we were scheduled to come through, forcing us to reroute through Las Vegas, about a six hour addition to an already grueling 18 hour trip.

Bodhi and I stop often, we go for walks long enough to almost be called hikes. We eat gas station string cheese together. But even so, the extra hours were a strain on us. I kept expecting him to retreat to his dog bed in the back of the 4Runner, especially past midnight, but he never did. He copiloted me all the way to Davis. where we took a 2am walk, reacquainting ourselves with the neighborhood smells.

Dog is my co-pilot

We are two weeks into our California routine. A minimum of two long leash walks a day during the week, beach time on my three day weekends. The fruit trees are blooming, honeysuckle and jasmine fill the night air, and last night, at Mad River County Park, the sun fell into the Pacific, orange as a cantaloupe, and a few minutes later the full moon rose over the dunes. Thanks to Bodhi, I was there to see all of it, all that joy served up by our one true mother.

Pink moon, looking a little golden, 1/12/2025

There is no denying the trouble we are in. Once innocent people are being plucked out of their lives and put into prisons which are actually torture chambers without due process, we don’t have to wait and see what bad things are going to happen. They have already happened, and any one of us could be next, any one of the people we love. All the ways you might be telling yourself you might be protected, by your citizenship, by your money, by your whiteness, by not crossing a border, by not speaking out, by not showing up, that is all magical thinking. The only thing we really have going for us is strength in numbers, which is not nothing. We have arrived at the moment where no one is safe in the United States of America, and our two jobs are to fight on behalf of others, and to survive.

I am committed to the belief that finding joy is not a distraction from the fight that is before us; but necessary preparation. It is sustenance. A daily and essential reminder of all we are fighting for. The dogs are here to convince us that we are allowed that joy, that we must make it and claim it and spread it. And right now, as the sun climbs higher into the morning, Bodhi reminds me, it is time for us to go find some joy of our own.

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