When I’m in danger of taking life too seriously, I look at my dog. Now, you might say that’s a little too simple, but then again, simple is underrated.

Buddy’s a German Short Hair mix with a lopsided grin and eyes full of the sort of wisdom that only comes from sniffing everything twice and forgetting why he went into the backyard. I think if he had a résumé, it would just say, “Professional Napper, Certified Food Enthusiast, Lifetime Chaser of Imaginary Squirrels.”

Just the other day, I was trying to sort out my desk, file some paperwork, and figure out where I left my favorite pen, all while the news was yammering on in the background about things entirely out of my control. I was scowling so hard I was leaving wrinkles in the air.

And there was Buddy—flat on his back, feet sticking straight up like he was auditioning for a taxidermy display at the local sporting goods store, snoring in four different registers. I stared at him for a moment and asked, “What in the world do you have to be so relaxed about?”

He gave a little huff through his nose, shifted his back leg, and kept right on snoozing. That’s when it hit me–he wasn’t worried about the bills, the government, or whether or not we were out of milk.

He had food in his bowl, a patch of sun to lie in, and someone who occasionally dropped a bit of bacon on the floor. What else did he need?

I think dogs know something we don’t or used to know but forgot. They wake up every day fully committed to joy.

No hesitation, no shame in being thrilled over the same tennis ball they’ve had for five years. Buddy celebrates a walk like it’s Christmas morning and treats every belly rub like a surprise party.

Meanwhile, I’ve been known to mutter at the coffee pot because it brews too slowly.

There’s something holy in the way Buddy lives. He forgives quickly, naps deeply, and never misses the chance to wag his tail.

He doesn’t dwell on the squirrel that got away or the mailman he didn’t bark at in time. And when the sun hits just right on the living room floor, he stretches out with the kind of abandon I envy—like God Himself laid that light down just for him.

So when I catch myself getting wrapped around the axle—worrying about things I can’t fix or fussing over details that don’t matter—I look at Buddy. I let him remind me that life is too short not to nap when the couch is warm or dance a little when the leash comes off.

He keeps me grounded, even if he’s the one digging up the yard. And if I’m lucky, maybe someday I’ll be half as wise as my dog.

But I draw the line at licking myself.