The Gospel of Sam
Or, how I learned to accept life
It was a hot, sunny August day when I first met Sam. I had my sons with me, and our mission was simple: find a small dog, like the one on Frasier. Just a basic Jack Russell Terrier.
But fate—or maybe just my sons—had other plans.
They found the scruffiest, mangiest-looking dog on the lot. Long, shaggy hair, a heat rash on his back leg, and fur so matted it looked like a failed science experiment.
My oldest came running up to me, eyes wide.
“We found him, Dad. We found him!”
He already had a name: Sam.
Maybe that said something about the dog.
Maybe it said something about my son’s emotional wisdom.
The dog—originally named Scoobie—looked up at me. I scratched his head. Then shook mine.
But I couldn’t get his face out of my head.
Maybe because I was wounded, too.
I was in the middle of a divorce after nearly a decade with the mother of my boys. They were adjusting to two homes, two bedrooms—two of everything.
And me?
I was lonely. Worried. Afraid of what would come next.
I needed an anchor.
The Buddha said, “Pain is certain. Suffering is optional.”
Back then, just like now, I was in pain. Because being human means living through both the joy and the ache of life.
So later that week, I called the Humane Society. I asked if that scruffy little dog was still available.
He was.
And after a quick trip to the vet and groomer, I became a dog dad.
To say Sam changed my life—and my sons’—would be an understatement.
He became a living link to them, especially with their naming magic. In those early months of loss and upheaval, life with Sam gave me something to hold on to.
We went on walks. He went everywhere with me.
I got him trained. Eventually, he became a certified therapy dog. As my world slowly expanded again, Sam was right there with me—at libraries, coffee shops, art galleries, and stores. Heck, he even was the best man at my wedding.
He became known for his calm presence. When I moved into private practice, he became a kind of emotional amplifier, helping others feel at ease.
In all our years together, I think I only heard Sam bark six times.
He didn’t really get other dogs. But he got me.
And like all things, time caught up to him.
The dog who once scaled the Lighthouse Trail at Palo Duro with me now struggled with stairs.
Even though I knew the end was near, I told myself I had more time.
Until I didn’t.
The Gospel of Matthew says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
When Sam died, I felt everything—shock, grief, anger, sadness.
But I was held by friends.
Each had known Sam. Each, in their own way, shared in his loss.
That comforted me most.
Sam was my dog, yes. But he had made his mark on others—friends, clients, strangers. His quiet presence had spoken louder than words.
Seneca once wrote, “It’s better to conquer grief than to deceive it.”
It’s tempting, when we lose someone—or some-dog—we love, to retreat. To hide behind busyness. To say, “No one understands this kind of pain.”
But that’s the lie that isolates us.
The truth?
Everyone has experienced loss.
The question is: what will we do with ours?
Sam’s passing taught me the art of RAIN:
R – Reflect. What was this grief really saying? Was it just about Sam—or something deeper?
A – Accept. I let the feelings come. I stopped pushing them away or coping through distraction.
I – Inquire (Inward). I picked up my journal again. I wrote about Sam, about my sons, about how he had been the last tangible thread tying us together—and how his death forced me to face their absence, too.
N – Nourish. Not with food or drink, but with connection. I reached out more. Joined groups. Paused to talk. And resisted the pull to isolate.
Author Haruki Murakami wrote, “Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.”
If we can embrace that—if we can, as they say, learn to dance in the rain—then we not only live the length of our lives…as Diane Ackerman writes..
We live its width, too.