Sage of the Selfie

Let me tell you about the day I got shown up by a dog older than some trees I’ve parked under. It was back when I worked a season for DHL–not long, just a season in God’s infinite time, meant to hold one over until something else makes sense.

In the Virginia City Highland, I was delivering packages on roads, unconvinced about what they were. You know the type–more bumps and grind than pavement, and every mailbox is either leaning like it had a few too many or welded shut with sixteen coats of rust.

As I pull up to this house that was more porch with a front yard holding three tractors in various stages of reincarnation and one of those gnome statues that has lost its dignity, I see him–a real elder statesman of a pup, a cattle dog. Gray around the muzzle, eyes of tarnished, graying marbles, and a gait that said his hips were holding a truce with time, but there was a spark in him, a little light like he was running the ranch.

Back then, I always kept a pocketful of treats on my route so the dogs wouldn’t eat me or my tires. Giving the old fella one, supplying a pat on the head, I told him he was a good boy, which he already knew.

Turning back to the truck, I heard this low, thoughtful “woof,” not a bark or yip, but a woof. The kind of sound that comes from deep within a creature who’s seen some things.

And there, making his way toward me with the slow majesty of a dog who once herded cattle, scared off coyotes, and probably voted in two elections, is the same dog. Before I can say a word, he has his paw in my phone pocket—and somehow pulls it out like a stage magician revealing your card.

I blink.

He walks to the edge of the gravel driveway, props my phone up against the garden gnome’s broken foot, and sits down like it’s senior picture day. He tilts his head just so–ears back, eyes half-lidded like he’s got memories of running with wolves or maybe chasing a parked car.

Then I hear the click–the phone’s camera shutter. I swear to you, that dog took a selfie.

He looks back at me, all smug and proud, like he just taught a class on being photogenic. Then—I kid you not—he nods at me like, “Don’t forget to tag me,” snags another treat from my stunned, outstretched hand, and limps off into the sun-drenched weeds like a miner walking away from a glory hole.

I stood there for a minute, wondering if I’d imagined it. Then I looked down at my phone—and there it was. A perfectly framed photo of that dog, staring into the lens like a fido that’s seen the world and was ready to tell it something.

No filters. Just wisdom.

Life’s funny like that. Some days you’re the delivery man–other days, you’re the sidekick in a retiring cattle dog’s farewell tour.

And the lesson, I suppose? Never underestimate the old dogs–they’ve still got a few tricks, and more importantly, they know when to use them.