It’s a Dog’s Life, to be Sure

And it Mellows My Own

Robyn Sinead Sheppard
2 min readMay 2, 2019


Photo by the author

Meet Macy. She’s a Jack Russell terrier of uncertain age, although it’s been estimated to be 13 years. That’s old for her breed, but she shows no sign of slowing down. Maybe she doesn’t run up the stairs the way she used to, but she still beats me to the top every time.

The internet tells me 13–16 years is the average life span for the breed, so I guess it’s safe to say that Macy, much like me, is finally starting to get old.

Her favorite game is still chasing her tennis ball when we throw it, and she usually beings its back for another round.

But her favorite pastime is sitting in the easy chair, curled up next to Ed or me when we’re reading. Even now, as I’m writing this, she’s asleep at my side, occasionally twitching to let me know she’s still alive, chasing squirrels and rabbits across the fields and yards of her dreamscapes.

A Magic Dog, is Our Macy

How else can I explain the fact that whenever I’m tense or upset, all I have to do is rest a hand lightly on her back to feel the tension drain away?

Sometimes just knowing that she’s close — sleeping on my bed whilst I write — is enough to keep me relaxed.

And neither Ed nor I have ever raised a hand against her; striking an animal is like striking a child: doing so is admitting failure.

I don’t even like small dogs, but Macy has stolen my heart.



Robyn Sinead Sheppard

A happily retired technical writer, I write in order to understand what I'm thinking. I'm walking wounded from the Sexual Revolution.