Being Sunnie's human is never dull. Life with a puppy is filled with surprises.

This morning, I spent several minutes working on a routine to show family and friends all the commands Sunnie has learned. I'm setting the choreography to Bobby Hebb's "Sunny." The lyrics of that 1966 song describe a life once "filled with rain." After losing our dog, Josie, it seemed fitting to name the puppy who brightened our days and made us smile again Sunnie.

The routine includes the basics. Sunnie sits, stays, spins, goes to “place,” and heels. At the grand finale, she jumps through a hula hoop and then bows. At least that's the plan.

The truth is, training a puppy is a bit like teaching young children. One day, they seem to have mastered a skill. The next day, they stare at you as if they have no idea what you’re talking about.

Still, Sunnie is eager to learn. She'll do almost anything for a treat. She's learning to “wait” instead of dashing out the door, and she's making progress on not jumping on visitors. Most of the time, she comes when called. She's even getting better at “Leave it” and “Drop it.”

As we practice, I imagine showing off her accomplishments. Maybe family members will be impressed. Maybe they'll notice how much calmer she is than the wild puppy who once raced through the house carrying socks, paper napkins, and the TV remote. For a moment, I allow myself to think we've turned a corner.

I decide to take her for a walk on our familiar trail. I want to check on a young raven we noticed three days ago. The bird wasn’t yet able to fly, and I hope it survived any predators.

I also hope to avoid a patch of disturbed ground where Sunnie recently dug up something that had attracted a cloud of black flies. I quickly pulled her away, but not before I caught sight of what appeared to be the jaw and teeth of some rodent-like creature.

I’m looking around for the young raven when Sunnie sneaks away. I spot her at the disturbed ground. She yanks something out of the ground. Seconds later, she races toward me, tail wagging furiously, and something limp dangles from her mouth.

"Drop it!"

But this cheerful little grave robber has no intention of surrendering her treasure. She prances in circles around me, delighted with herself.

I pull a treat from my pocket.

"Let's trade."

This strategy worked earlier when she stole my shoe. Apparently, however, a decomposing woodland creature ranks considerably higher than footwear.

She keeps parading.

I groan.

To my surprise, Sunnie stops. Her ears droop. She tilts her head.

Maybe she thinks she has disappointed me.

Perhaps she feels sorry for me.

Whatever the reason, she suddenly does exactly what I've asked. Well, not exactly.

She drops the prize, but she drops it at my feet.

I look down.

There, impossible to ignore, are the fur, teeth, and unmistakable aroma of a partly decomposed squirrel.

The lyrics of "Sunny" thank someone who gives "their all in all."

Standing there on the trail, the lyrics echo in my head. My little ray of sunshine has just given me her "all in all."

To Sunnie, this isn't a rotten squirrel. It's a treasure. A prize. Something so wonderful that she can't bear to keep it for herself.

"Thank you, Sunshine," I say.

Then I head for the car to retrieve the shovel I keep in the trunk.

Some gifts are easier to appreciate than others. Still, there's something touching about being loved by a creature who wants to share her sunshine, even when it's a partly decomposed squirrel.