10/06/2026
There is something quietly heartbreaking about the mathematics of love when it comes to dogs.
They give us everything, loyalty without condition, joy without judgment, devotion without ego, and in return, they are given lives far too short for the beauty they bring into ours. They live only to please, only to love, only to be present. And yet somehow, creatures so selfless are allotted so little time, while people who live only for themselves, people like Trump, empty of empathy and devoted solely to their own reflection, are granted long, indulgent lives. It feels like one of the universe’s cruelest imbalances.
But while they are here, dogs teach us what love is supposed to look like.
So, allow me to introduce myself.
For those of you who haven’t met me yet, I’m Willow. I already had the name Willow when my dad, Michael, rescued me from a puppy mill prison in Kansas. At the time, I was his thirteenth foster dog. He thought he was going to adopt me out. I had other plans.
Like a bad penny, I kept finding my way back to him. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t get rid of me. Eventually, after getting approval from his wife, my mom Karen, he gave up and decided to keep me. Best decision he ever made, if you ask me.
At first, I was… let’s say, a bit of a handful. Completely unruly. Perpetually hungry. You see, the only thing the puppy mill ever wanted from me was to make babies. They neglected my care and didn’t feed me properly. When Dad finally decided I was home for good, I weighed a mere 24 pounds, far too little for a girl like me.
That hunger stuck with me.
Kitchen countertops. Dining room tables. Any unattended surface became my personal buffet. And I freely admit I took advantage of the fact that Michael rarely admonished me for acquiring human food. Discipline is not exactly his strong suit.
One Thanksgiving, I even ate an entire stick of butter. I tried to conceal my blatant malfeasance, but the crime was written all over my face…literally. The telltale smear of butter on my lips gave me away instantly.
Over the next two years, I grew from 24 pounds to a little over 70. Because so much of my early life was spent producing puppies, my own puppyhood never really existed. So I’ve been making up for lost time ever since. I turn 12 years old in November
My dad says I’m stubborn. I prefer to think of myself as a free spirit. Besides, him calling me stubborn is a classic case of the kettle calling the black, he’s one of the most stubborn humans I’ve ever met. Sure, I can be incorrigible at times, but if you were forced to live in a tiny box for the first two years of your life, endlessly pumping out puppies without understanding why, you’d be a little ornery too.
The photo below is me at my favorite hotel in St. George, Utah. St. George is my human father’s overnighter to rest up until the next day when he makes the 8 Hour drive to our home in Mexico. In Mexico, I spend my days running up and down the sand, dodging waves, and chasing those ridiculous sea birds who never seem to learn. I’m also on constant black squirrel patrol. Those filthy little varmints live in the rocks surrounding our community, and honestly, if I don’t keep an eye on them, who will?
We also have a home in Colorado, which makes me feel especially lucky. Between Mexico and Colorado, my love of the outdoors is perfectly fulfilled.
Oh, the and one more thing. I’m a pointer. A Hungarian Pointer, to be exact. A Vizsla. Many humans assume I’m a Chocolate Labrador because of my darker coat, but just look at my long nose and narrow face. I’m Vizsla through and through.
I may not be here as long as the humans who love me. But while I am, I will love them without reservation, without condition, and without ego.
That’s what dogs do.
And if the world paid closer attention to that kind of love, it might be a better place than the selfish men insist on ruling.
—Michael Jochum
Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition
