Barley, a dog, sniffs around at the base of several enormous hunks of wood cut years ago from the trunk of a huge tree. In a post from some time ago, I described my experience of being temporarily displaced from my apartment by a (thankfully minor) flooding problem, which resulted in a Bad Time for Barley. While that story turned out fine in the end for her and for myself, I didn’t mention the sting in the tail for the awful model unit that we stayed in as an emergency measure. Not two weeks after we had moved back into my apartment, a monster ice storm swept through the area and overburdened one of the tallest trees in the neighborhood. In came down like an axe and split the building clean in half, wrecking the very model unit I had stayed in. Fortunately, it being a model unit, it was empty when the tree fell, so no one was hurt. Still it was quite a sight to behold when walking Barley the following morning. Before long, the ice had thawed, but even then it took nearly a month for a work crew to begin the disassembly of the beast. They had to bring in a crane to support the trunk from above while taking chunks off, to avoid the risk of it settling further and damaging the foundation. Gradually, bit by bit, the tree came apart and various bits were either carted off or mulched on the spot. Today, years…

Barley, a dog, snoozes on her dog bed with her head entirely beneath a coffee table, blocking every light source in the room. Generally, Barley simply curls up and sleeps. Ambient light has never been enough to talk her out of a good snooze. And since she tends to plop down first and get comfortable later, that’s generally the best she can do. In this case, however, she somehow managed to thread the needle and get her head entirely under the coffee table and away from any annoying lights. Not that I worry she’ll manage this feat too terribly often, but this is a good reminder that I need to vacuum under there.

Barley, a dog, is facing ahead, but is trying her hardest to walk sideways toward a nearby tree, stretching her leash taut. Barley often has strong opinions about the direction she would like to go while on walks, and these preferences often must be disregarded. For example, I’m generally going to keep my distance from busy streets, because Barley invariable gets it in her head that such streets must be crossed with great urgency. When our objectives are at 90 degrees from one another, Barley will often sustain this sort of “scrabblin’ crab walk” for a few dozen feet, making nominal progress in my intended direction, but facing and pulling the direction she wants to go. Normally, I’m happy to give her the impression of sled-doggin’ by pulling my along with the back clip on her harness, but at moments like these, I’m reminded that the harness also has a front clip. Would that I could switch where I was clipped at will to help turn her when it matters most.

Barley, a dog, enthusiastically licks the residue from a single-serving cup of yogurt. Barley has many fans who stop by my office to say hello. Some stop by daily, while others are only infrequent visitors who must go well out of their way to see her. Sometimes, she is the beneficiary of their lunch plans, and gets some precious yogurt leftovers. As calorically meager as a nearly empty cup of yogurt might be, Barley’s response to this generosity nevertheless displays all the enthusiasm of one who has received a great boon.

Juniper, a dog, curls up on her big dog bed, but her eyes are wide and aimed upward at a television outside of and above the frame of the photo. I find many things about Juniper’s television watching intriguing. Not only is she quite engaged when she watches screens, she appears to be comfortable doing so from such an oblique angle that the television’s image fidelity is surely impacted. Being a dog with limited color vision, the chromatic effects of viewing a flatscreen at an angle probably don’t bother her to much, but surely she can tell that the contrast is off. Furthermore, how does she square the television image getting narrower? She doesn’t seem to quite understand the 2D nature of screens (she still sometimes investigates behind the laptop screen if someone’s head ducks out of view on a video call), so is she lying on her bed in this photo thinking to herself, “Geez, the Bake-Off contestants sure are tall and narrow today.”

Barley, a dog, sits in the passenger seat of a vehicle, as seen through the window, which also shows reflections from the surrounding parking lot. Barley tolerates waiting in the car well, as she finds the comings and goings of people in parking lots to be quite interesting. Generally, she waits in the back seat, but if the car’s orientation is such that the parking lot is best observed from the front, she somestimes clambers over the mesh barrier and takes up a position in one of the front seats. While these are reasonably comfortable, they don’y offer enough room for her to lie down, so when I find she’s decided to be a front seat dog, it’s invariably in this sitting position.

Barley, a dog, sniffs around at the base of the tiniest dumpster I’ve ever seen. I had hoped having Barley in this photo would help convey a sense of scale, but even here, I don’t think I’m getting across how tiny these dumpsters are. They feel like adorable props for a theme park attraction intended to make little kids feel like they’re adults. There must be some cost advantage to the business renting these (presumably they just don’t generate waste fast enough to need the more typical sizes), but frankly I find these cute enough that there’s some added value right there.

Barley, a dog, investigates the outflow from a gutter that has been equipped with a decorative fish spout. Barley, I understand that you have every reason to be intrigued, but I promise you this: That fish has way worse breath than you do.

Barley, a dog, sleeps on a couch while curled up between two people who are just out of frame. I’ve met my fair share of people who find it “weird” that dogs become relaxed when squeezed. Got a nervous pup? Maybe try a thundershirt that acts a full-body hug that the dog can wear. While Barley has a talent for falling asleep just about anywhere, it’s notable how much she favors sleeping both on top of others, and with others on top of her. This no doubt has evolutionary advantages in terms of heat retention, but I think it’s just as important that the folks around her act as an ongoing affirmation that all’s well and everything’s calm. After all, if one member of a dogpile startles, everyone is going to get jostled. My hypothesis is that thundershirts co-op this effect, simulating (in a way unlikely to ever have emerged in nature) the feeling of being part of a big cuddle puddle while simultaneously free to move about the cabin.

Barley, a dog, chews her way down the length of a fallen branch, stripping away the bark and leaving exposed, slobbery wood behind. Barley decides only very occasionally that a stick is worthy of summary destruction, and on those occasions, she seems most pleased by the feeling of bark coming away from the underlying branch beneath. Once a stick has been thusly stripped, she’ll get on with the business of chewing/snapping it into little chunks, so the bark is not the sole attraction, but it nevertheless holds a particular appeal. This tells us something, perhaps, about what it is that dogs enjoy feeling when they chew recreationally. It seems clear to me that in order for a toy or stick to be worth of her toothsome attention, it must yield, incrementally. If she can’t perceive that she’s making progress, she loses interest pretty fast.

Barley, a dog, lies in a relaxed pose at the stop of a staircase, peering past the photographer to the right. Barley’s life inevitably involves a lot of down time. While she would no doubt love for there to be some sort of activity unfolding for her to participate in at all times, the practical reality is that most of her favored humans have “this many hours spent sitting” sorts of jobs and hobbies, and while we are engaged with them, Barley bides her time as best she can. Often, this consists of snoozing, but when I visit my parents, she is keenly aware of whether they are both at home, and she will preferentially station herself at one of her lookout spots to watch for their return instead of taking a nap. Here, we se her staring intently out a 2nd-story window that overlooks the entrance to the back yard, watching, waiting, believing in her hear that my dad will return from his morning walk any time now.

Juniper, a dog, sits excitedly, ready to spring into pursuit after a ball that is about to be thrown. Juniper’s existence is one of long, slow, watchful days, punctuated by bursts of sudden intensity. Her hips are such that she can’t operate at full steam for too terribly long, but she can nevertheless call upon a sprinter’s spirit when given sufficient motivation. Typically, two scenarios induce a fully activated Juniper. One is Pursuit! Chasing a ball is great, but she’s no less explosive in her pursuit of interloping creatures who have breached the perimeter. The other is Going Home! Juniper remains actively wary of going on walks, but becomes incredibly excited when she realizes that the walk is heading back towards the safety of her home base.

Barley, a dog, pants in the sunlight beside a sign reading, “THANK YOU ESSENTIAL WORKERS” that has stood unmoved in a particular yard for over four years. As we approach the American Time Of Thanking, I find myself reflecting on this sign that I pass from time to time, which has stood since the early months of 2020. On the one hand, obviously we as members of society owe gratitude to those whose work ensures the smooth operations of the systems we depend on to survive and thrive. On the other hand, though, the term never sat well with me, because it is always worth asking: Essential to whom? With the benefit of hindsight, the rhetoric of the pandemic years clearly insisted that many such workers put themselves at risk to keep the nation’s economic engines running. This particular slogan felt, almost immediately, like a way for people who were not putting themselves at risk to feel better about those who were not afforded that opportunity. It doesn’t ring true to me that the supermarket employee driving past this sign on their way to work a then-much-riskier-job for years felt like this was an adequate way to thank them.

Barley, a dog, stands somewhat elevated atop the end of a garden wall, looking at the world beyond as she gives her snoot a big lick. People, as a rule, are nice to dogs and are nice about dogs when speaking to their owners. Barley receives a steady stream of praise over the course of her many human interactions in a given week, and a part of me always reacts to this by thinking, “I bet you say that to/about all the dogs.” Even so, and even given my considerable bias, I can’t help but feel that Barley is an exemplary mutt, canine beyond expectation, a real dog’s dog. In this, I’m exceptionally lucky that, in most of the ways that matter, the exceptions to this characterization are eccentricities that make Barley easier to take to work than most dogs. So, another part of me always thinks, “Yeah! This is a very good dog!”

Barley, a dog, sits at a window wearing her harness and watches someone leaving the house with evident concern. Like most dogs Barley is unnerved by humans performing the Pre-Travel Ritual. Packing up clothes? Putting things in suitcases? This is weird behavior and a deviation from routine. See, me getting my backpack ready to go is an everyday affair, and Barley gets excited because she knows we are going to work together when I do so. Suitcases are different. Even though she comes with my on pretty much every trip I take in which I pack a suitcase, that’s rare, and most dogs don’t like rare events. This usually culminates in a period of active concern while the car is being loaded, since that requires a series of departures and returns that Barley does not get to participate in. We see her here, dressed for the trip, clearly feeling the need to keep a close eye on luggage-packing events as they unfold.

Barley, a dog, lies on her side on the futon, with one paw up toward the camera and a spaced out, sleepy smile on her face. Barley finds plenty of time each day to relax, and in an environment where she feels comfortable, she’ll often do so in a legs-to-the-side, belly-out orientation. Under such conditions, she is always grateful to a human who approaches her calmly and gives her entire undercarriage a gentle massage. This is especially true if she has recently had a bit of a workout, in which case a massage to her abdominals and pectoral muscles is much appreciated.

Barley, a dog, clambers up a steep earthen embankment that is held together by a web of surface ivy so tight that the underlying soil is invisible. In the eyes of frugally-minded property developers, the beauty of surface ivy is two-fold. On the one hand, it requires basically no maintenance beyond a quick pass along its perimeter with an edger from time to time, and on the other hand, its criss-crossing woody mesh beneath the greenery acts as a self-sustaining retaining structure for steep earthen slopes. No need to use an earth mover to level things out, or to build terraced planters. Just let the ivy hold it together and the wall will stay put even in torrential rain. In Barley’s eyes, however, these steep ivy slopes hold a different beauty: A substrate to which her paws and claws are perfectly suited for hopping up to higher altitude and scampering about. There’s no better surface for Barley to have an easy time changing altitude.

Barley, a dog, walks happily along the street on a sunlit day, looking enthusiastically at the camera. During the initial minutes of a walk, Barley shows an intense enthusiasm to get out there and collate some fresh data. It feels like a race, and she doesn’t key into the person walking her very much. Once she’s settled into a good walking pace, especially if it’s a walk that is covering more ground, she becomes a much more interactive presence, keeping an eye on you as much as she is on the surroundings. Once she gets into this mode, she really likes being addressed and praised as she walks, trotting along with a little extra wag in her tail.

Juniper, a dog, rears up on her hind legs to bark at an elevated television that depicts two small children playing with a puppy. Juniper’s quest to banish screen beasts is not limited to the sort of adult animals that might pose a risk to her people. She’ll just as enthusiastically throw down the gauntlet when presented with literal puppies. Be they tiny and bumbling or looming and monstrous, Juniper will always let the house know when a furry interloper has sullied one of her beloved screens.

Barley, a dog, sniffs about in a thicket of bushy plants consisting of at least five distinct species, all so densely interwoven that anything beneath them is wholly concealed. I’m very sensitive about eye stuff. Nothing in a film makes me squirm like someone’s eye getting messed with, and I go to great lengths to keep my own eyes shielded from harm. This makes Barley’s face-first approach the world all the most remarkable to me. It’s clear to me that her eyes are simply made of sterner stuff than mine. Sure, she’s got beefy eyelids to protect herself, and she can always proceed by smell alone if her eyes need to stay closed, but she still brushes the wet surface of her eyeballs against stuff just about every day as she goes about her routine, and never seems even a little bothered by it. Faced with this sort of thick, interlocking foliage, she’ll just put her whole face in and root around in a way I certainly couldn’t get away with unless I used eye protection. It makes me wonder to what extent this is something dogs simply learn to put up with, as well as how much of it is simply that dogs are built different.