Shadow, Stillness, Shine

We’ve always had female border collies. Maybe it started with Footrot Flats—those funny cartoons full of loyal friends with more personality than most people. Maybe it was happenstance. Either way, dogs have walked beside us throughout our married life, and they’ve each left their pawprints on us in different ways.

Jessie was our first. Fresh from a northern NSW farm and into our newlywed life, she picked us as much as we picked her. The whole litter ran to us in a black-and-white blur, and somehow Jessie ended up in our arms. She chased shadows like they were real things—birds, butterflies, flickers of light—and she never gave up the chase. She taught us about sleepless nights and improvisation: how a kitten and a border collie can become instant soulmates when thrown together in a laundry. She lived like a firework—non-stop motion until the very end when her heart said, That’s enough now. We were heartbroken, but grateful. Dogs teach you that kind of bittersweet truth: fifteen years of joy is always worth the grief at the end.

Then came Dakota, blackened teeth and sadness from a life that never gave her a fair go. Neglected and misused, she’d been reduced to a business transaction, then discarded when she failed to “perform.” But how she bloomed when she was finally seen. Her body was worn and broken, but her spirit was gentle. She’d loved the students at the college where I work, soaking up every bit of affection like a thirsty plant. She gave us quiet loyalty, bravery, and trust—the kind that’s hard-won. When it was time to say goodbye, we stayed. Of course we did. She finally belonged to people who would never leave.

Two weeks later we got Nia. Ten weeks old and full of joy. Her breeder told us she was her shadow, always following her around. She’s energetic and smart, gentle and people-loving. She herds basketballs in the absence of sheep and goes with us everywhere.

Even to church.

Yes, our dogs come to church. They sit quietly in the pew beside us, heads low. Nobody scowls. On the contrary—people smile, reach out to pat them, ask how they’re doing. On the rare Sunday we arrive without a dog in tow, someone inevitably asks, “Where’s Nia today?” They’re not just part of our household. They’re part of the congregation.

People say dogs are a lot of work. But we think they’re simple: food, exercise, companionship. And love—endless love. But that’s not a chore. That’s the gift.

I sometimes wish people were more like dogs. Clear in their loyalty. Uncomplicated in their joy. Willing to sit with you, run with you, mourn with you. They don’t demand perfection. They just ask to be near.

In a world that moves too fast and talks too much, dogs simply are. Present, warm, and true. They chase shadows. They heal wounds. They remind us that love is not a transaction. It’s a way of being.

That’s why, for us, dogs will always be the best animals. And border collies—especially the girls—will always be our first choice.

Three Dogs

Jessie chased shadows
like they were made of gold.
Bird wings across the grass,
every dart or movement
an invitation to run.
She came to us
when we were young
and everything was new.
She cried in the night
until we gave her a kitten
and in that warm, soft company,
she found peace.
Fifteen years of motion—
then stillness.
Even fire runs out of fuel.

Dakota didn’t chase anything.
She had already been chased—
by people who saw only profit,
by a past that gnawed at her bones.
She came to us broken
and gently rebuilt herself
in slow hours of affection and trust.
Students knelt beside her,
far from their own homes,
finding something of home
in her gentle presence.
She was quiet love,
and we stayed until the end,
leaving was never an option
for someone who had already
been left too many times.

Nia is the shadow that follows joy.
She herds basketballs,
licks freely,
and believes the world is kind.
She goes where we go,
as if to say: of course.
She is a living reminder
that tenderness begins small
and grows with you,
if you let it.

Three dogs.
Each a chapter,
each a companion.
One chased the light.
One learned to lie in it.
One is made of it.