A couple walks two small dogs past our campsite. “Morning!” I reply to the man’s warm hello.

I give Scout a treat, not because she needs it (there are still times where our use of food is more management than reward) but because it is a beautiful calm morning and she is a beautiful calm dog. “She’s so good,” croons the woman as they pass, chihuahuas’ legs working overtime to pull ahead. “Ours aren’t quite so composed.”

I laugh with her, give a final wave. And think to myself that even all these years later—and when it’s far from the first time—I still glow when a stranger tells me Scout is well-behaved. Composed. Good.

She is all those things nowadays. But most of all I think she’s happy. Scout is able to be well-behaved and composed and good because she is fulfilled and trusted and understood.

“We never scold her for anything anymore,” Sean remarked the other day. He’s right—we never need to.

Well, almost never. My standards shrink as we all age. But the love only grows.

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