Sunnie, our new puppy, fell head over paws for the beach in Gulf Shores, Alabama. She pulled on the leash as we got closer. Once her paws hit the warm sand, she dug furiously, pausing now and then to stretch out as the sand shifted beneath her, cradling her like a memory foam mattress.

She chased shore birds with reckless enthusiasm, advancing when the waves slipped away and retreating when they rushed back in. I hated the thought of taking her from it when we returned to Wisconsin. I even looked into buying her a sandbox. On our last day, we stood together, letting the wind ruffle our hair. I remember thinking she would never be this happy again.

Once home, reality—and yard work—waited. Sunnie joined me in the backyard as I began picking up sticks and tossing them into a pile. Before long, she was “helping,” tugging sticks from my hand or proudly dragging her own discoveries across the yard. She chomped, flung them into the air, and pounced after them, her tail wagging with unfiltered joy.

She discovered a turkey vulture feather, chomped down on it, and proudly carried it around as if announcing spring’s arrival.

I found myself slowing down, almost reluctant to finish the yard work. I didn’t want her fun to end.

When my husband began cleaning out our water garden, Sunnie was at his side, ready to assist. He scooped up fish and frogs, setting them aside, then reached into the pond and lifted out dripping handfuls of dark, earthy muck. He dropped it into a pail. Sunnie pressed her nose into it. Oh, boy—such joy. The smell of it—rich and a little wild—was irresistible. When my husband hauled the pail to the mulch pile, Sunnie romped alongside, eager to investigate more.

When she discovered the neighbor had set out some pretzels for the squirrels, she was off on a new discovery—and a taste test. Apparently, they passed.

The world held such treasures. Pretzels. Frogs. Fish. Muck. With her smudged nose, muddy paws, and wagging tail, she had never looked happier, not at the beach, not anywhere.

To give my husband a break from his helper, I took her for a walk in the woods. She tugged at the leash, eager to investigate every leaf pile, hollow stump, and scampering squirrel. Her nose led the way. Her whole body seemed to hum with curiosity. It was nearly impossible to keep up with her.

And that’s when it struck me.

Sunnie doesn’t compare the woods to the beach, the backyard, or the water garden. She isn’t spending her time wishing for waves or missing out on pretzels, sticks, squirrels, or frogs. Wherever she is, she is all in—fully present, fully delighted, greeting each moment as if it were brand new.

To her, a stick is just as thrilling as a crashing wave. A pile of muck holds as much promise as a flock of shore birds.

I, on the other hand, tend to compare. I rank my days, my vacations, my experiences—this was better, that was best. I hold on to what was and worry that what comes next won’t quite measure up.

Sunnie doesn’t do that.

She finds joy wherever she lands.

This morning, she jumps against the barely latched bedroom door, eager to awaken my husband. It’s the start of another wonderful day, another chance for joy, and most importantly, it’s time for her belly rub and massage. She licks his hand until he gets up. He obliges her, and she stretches out in ecstasy. 

Now this, right here and now, is the most wonderful thing in the world.