A golden retriever named Maeve. She's six months old, which means she is mostly legs and wants and a quantity of energy aimed in no particular direction. She is asleep at my feet as I write this, and she is the second golden of my life. The first one belonged to my childhood. This one belongs to whoever I've turned into since.

Having her again has shown me something I was too young to see the first time.

It's easy to forget, because she's soft and golden and she leans her whole weight against your shins like she's trying to become part of you. But underneath the softness is a few hundred generations of purpose. She was bred to run, to chase, to carry, to find the thing in the tall grass and br…