I like dogs. Some of my best friends are, and have been, dogs. My current four-legged pal is a 13-year-old poodle/terrier train wreck called Penny. Of all my canine cronies, Penny has taught me the most.

Small, yappy mutts have no precedence in our family. We tend toward the strong silent type; we fancy ourselves “big dog” people. It seems only natural a football playing, wrestling, fishing, kayaking, skiing, back packing, sitting around a camp fire tribe like ours would have a slobbering, Frisbee fetching, romping in the surf, running through the snow, splashing in the creek, big old lab or golden named Bear or Duke! How did a prancing little lap dog come to hang with this bunch of microbrew drinking, contact sport loving, knuckleheads?

Well, Penny joined the team on the last move our family franchise made. This resettlement brought us to Washington 10 years ago. The new house came with a lovely, private, creek-side backyard, spacious decks, nice neighbors, and a small mixed-breed dog going through a nervous breakdown. The previous owners (of the house and the dog) were conducting the final negotiations in divorce. Neither wanted the pooch; a fact the poor thing seemed to intuit, making it all the more squirrelly.

We were in the market for a new dog. Our golden retriever, Greta, had taken her final walk a couple of months before. The yelping, psychotic, fur ball we kept encountering with each visit to the house as motivated buyers was never viewed as a potential replacement. Finally, on the “walk through” with the owner (at the end only the husband and the dog were present, the ex-wife having split as soon as the earnest money was put down), as the intricacies of the hot tub, secrets of the irrigation system, and at last the house keys were given over, the feckless owner divulged that the dog would have to be taken to the pound. Husband and wife had split everything but the mutt; the dog had been correct all along, nobody wanted her.

“I don’t suppose you and your kids would want her, would you?” the weasel asked.

With my kids and wife staring holes into the back of my skull, sensing eternal familial disdain if I didn’t step up and save the poor pooch, I replied with disappointment, “OK, we’ll take the dog.”

So began a period in which the family, excluding me, reprogrammed the dog; who was quickly named Penny, because my wife believed that she would be, “our lucky penny.” I tried to ignore the barky little thing. This was difficult. Penny seemed to know I was the one who had spared her.

In appreciation for saving her life she lavished me with her loudest and most sincerely felt yaps, yelps, growls, and weird gurgling sounds. I gave her no encouragement, not a pat or a pet. No kind words to acknowledge her barking praise. Usually, a family member would rush to rescue me from the dog’s bark-a-thon of adoration. Penny would be summoned away, or sometimes, carried away, to soothing admonishments like, “It’s OK. Daddy loves you.” Hardly the case!

I was having a pet owner identity crisis. I didn’t want to be “that guy.” You know, “that guy,” walking the little dog with the pastel bow attached to its collar. I didn’t want to be “that guy,” who sticks to the perimeter of the dog park, avoiding the big dogs and their owner’s off the leash rough housing. Mostly, I did not want to be “that guy,” who drives around with his little Fluff or Muff on his lap, inciting other motorists and their kids to squealing comments like, “Oh, look at the little doggie! Isn’t that cute?” Knowing any adult male in their car is thinking, “Man, I’m glad I’m not that guy!”

I didn’t need to worry. My wife and kids transformed Penny. She barked only at strangers and other dogs. She held her own on trails, beaches, and in parks. While never mastering “fetch,” she loved to take long, bouncy, walks. Penny became skilled at balancing in the bow of a drift boat on fishing trips. She was my constant companion when working in the yard. She became a Mariners and Seahawks fan, sitting with me during games on the radio or television, showing “dogged” support, even during the worst seasons.

The kids are gone. My wife and I have “down sized” and moved to the Indianola Spit. Penny is still with us. Ironically, now that we live in Indianola, where as Dylan sang, “dogs run free,” Penny has little run left in her. She sleeps a lot; only our area rugs have more floor time. An occasional walk on the beach leaves her sore for days. Now, instead of digging around in the flowerbeds with me, she sleeps in a warm sunspot near the house. Recently, she’s had trouble with the stairs. I have not carried her yet, but anticipate the time will come soon.

So, what has Penny taught me? First, don’t prejudge. That’s true of about everything, dogs, people, cultures, lifestyles, even that funny looking green stuff that just got put on your plate. Try it. Check it, or her, or him, or them, out! You never know, you might like what you find. The skinny guy with the “Play Soccer” t-shirt, at the neighbor’s party, the one who drove up in the Volvo with the Kerry/Edwards sticker; he may turn out to be your next fishing buddy. It could happen!

I have learned, from Penny, that some seemingly hard truths are not true at all. I no longer believe, “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Penny at age three (which is 21 in dog years), learned to stop barking and chill. I can think of a lot of people who should learn to quiet down and relax. I know from Penny’s example that it is possible. The ability to change has no expiration date.

In the end, I’ve learned from Penny, that some things remain true, but are under appreciated. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” there’s some enduring advice. Penny deserves her time, asleep in the sun. Her years of devotion and commitment to the family have earned her the right to be undisturbed as she chases rabbits in her dreams.

Being a good friend is hard work. Sometimes just knowing they are there, even if not actively engaged in the tasks of friendship, is enough. We all need time to enjoy pleasant dreams. Reality can be sudden and harsh. The day will come for all of us, when like Penny and I, we will need to carry or be carried up the stairs. Having good friends around when that time comes will make the climb easier.

I like dogs; they make good friends, and teach good lessons.