All the Things I Know About Happiness I Learned From My 9-Year-Old Yellow Lab

Every single morning, Minjay wakes up with a wide smile on his face, filled with such joy and energy. And when my husband and I wake up, he's delighted to see us so we can start our day, with all its adventures, together. He runs to our bed, wags his tail, and jumps up and down — and I've learned his mood is contagious.

We sometimes get in our own grumpy way in the morning. But I've found that shifting my mood to just being grateful that I wake up every day and excited for what lays ahead can make a huge difference.

For much of the past nine years, I've walked Minjay every single morning, and the walks alone are such a boost to my happiness. But one Summer several years ago, while on one of our walks, I had a revelation: most of the time, the world doesn't care if I'm late.

Yes, sometimes there are specific meetings I must be on time for, and I don't ever want to be disrespectful or waste people's time. But outside of those situations, I realized I often create stress and rush for myself when I don't need to. When I think back to the majority of times when I was anxious to get somewhere at a specific time, it was really unnecessary; I was the only one putting time pressure on myself.

I had this realization two blocks from my house, on a beautiful morning. The American Sweetgum trees that lined the streets near my building were a luscious green. We were at the corner, and Minjay was pulling me backward as I tried to lead him forward across the street toward the house. "Minjay, pleeeease," I pleaded. "We have to get back home now. I'll be late." He refused to move. After being frustrated for a couple of minutes, I realized: he was absolutely right.

I looked at my watch. We weren't talking about being an hour late. Did three minutes really matter? Would it really be so catastrophic if I didn't arrive to work at 9:30 sharp as I pushed myself to do? I didn't have any meetings first thing, nor any looming deadlines, so I relaxed my grip on his leash, and he walked backward to continue to smell a particularly interesting patch of grass. Then I followed his pace back to the house, which really only took us a few minutes longer than mine would have.

And I was much calmer than I normally was. I took time to appreciate a beautiful morning, and got to work only seven minutes behind schedule. Even better, I was refreshed, with a bit of perspective and without the unnecessary, self-constructed anxiety. And as a result, I powered my way through my to-do list and had the best morning in a long time.

One evening, Minjay and I made our way through the park around sunset. For some reason, I was in a hurry to get home. But it was a beautiful evening, and there was just no reason to be in a rush. Minjay planted himself on the grass with a stick and forced me to slow down, plop onto the grass like a kid, and sit there, enjoying the sunset and the light wind. It was a simple, small moment I would have missed otherwise — and I realized I've probably missed too many.

Minjay is not only the happiest dog in the world, but he's also the friendliest dog in the world. If he had his way (and he usually does), he would stop and say hello to every single person that we pass on our walks and play with every dog who crosses our path.

I'm often surprised that he even continues to approach less-than-friendly dogs we've seen before, and tries to say hello every time. Sure, he's cautious, and moves on if a dog, or person, is unfriendly. But he gives everyone a chance and assumes, in general, the world is a wonderful place.

His basic assumption is that people and dogs are great, and then he adjusts if they're not — rather than the other way around. I now try to emulate him in how I interact with people I meet, in every kind of scenario.

He's also helped me deal with people who aren't particularly nice — you always try to say hello and engage, and if they're mean, you simply walk away without giving it another thought.

Once, we were at a picnic-style event with friends, and in our group there was another dog. The young pup was a rescue and still getting used to other dogs and noisy outdoor settings. Minjay, ever-friendly, wiggled up to the dog to try and play. He rolled around on the grass, smiling, clearly loving our Summer night outside. The other dog was barking non-stop, right in Minjay's face, but that didn't deter my guy from having a great time.

I think on some level he knew that the dog wouldn't hurt him, and he was not about to let anyone ruin his fun or change his mood. I was stunned — even though I'd seen his happy disposition in action a thousand times before — at how he stretched out on our blanket, a huge, happy dog-smile across his face, tail wagging, completely ignoring the other dog's agitation. I made a huge mental note to myself that evening: no matter how someone else is acting, you don't let them alter who you are and your mood, or ruin a great time for you.

One morning, on my way from our apartment door to the elevator, I realized I had forgotten a document that I urgently needed. I had just held it in my hands a few minutes before, so I rushed back inside to pick it up. The weirdest thing happened — the paper disappeared. I had just had it in my hands, I really wanted to take it with me, and I couldn't find it. Stress took over, and I began to madly shuffle all the papers on my desk, pulling out folders and piles and spreading them out.

As I searched, I could feel my anxiety building. But then, Minjay gave a whine I've only heard him make a couple times in his life, when he was really sick or nervous. But this time, he was just standing next to me watching me wildly throw papers, and he could obviously feel my anxiety. I had transferred it to him. I had already known he could feel my excitement: when I grab his leash and am clearly excited to leave the house, he jumps around at the door even more than usual.

There have been plenty of studies that show how intelligent dogs are and how they can sense our emotions. But this was the first time I saw how my anxiety spread to him tangibly.

I couldn't help thinking about how my anxiety could affect other people around me, and resolved to be better about not letting my anxieties get the best of me.

A couple of months before Minjay's fifth birthday, he had to have knee surgery. It was heartbreaking; there's no other word for it. The first few days, when he was hurting and confused, I didn't know what to do since I couldn't help beyond providing him his medicine. So I would just sit with him on the floor, as close to him as possible. And it was enough. He would wag his tail ever so gently. It was a soft sweep on the floor really because he was so tired and couldn't move, letting me know he was grateful. That was all it took, just being next to him on the floor.

Ever since then, my favorite spot to do my work is on the floor next to him. Or, after a long day, I just lie down on the floor and pet him quietly while he wags his tail. He's shown me that the greatest gestures of love, and of friendship, are often silent, and we don't really need much more than being right next to someone we love.

When I first saw signs of Minjay aging, I freaked out. Though part of me wanted to reminisce about his boundless puppy energy, I soon realized that there were so many wonderful things that came with his slowing down. We could now sit together in coffee shops, and even though he'd jump up to greet everyone who passed, he was more calm and happy to enjoy just sitting outside together. At home on the couch, he started to jump up and snuggle his face into my lap, something he never did as a puppy. There were all these facets of him I was getting to see and wonderful new moments and lessons I was getting to experience, that only came out with his maturing and age.

And as we grow up together (and he raises both me and my husband to be better humans), our bond grows deeper. And I wouldn't change that for a thing. Because he's perfect today, just the way he is. (And, as he teaches me, so am I.)

Not to be morbid, but I think of this every day. And ever since he was 3 years old, I've been very aware of being in the moment, because that was when I first realized he was growing older. He was no longer a little puppy, and there would be a day when I would have to say goodbye to him. Every walk, every cuddle, every morning is precious. And it's not that I'm worried about losing him (though I certainly am already), it's about knowing just how valuable every moment is, because it's all too easy to take for granted in our busy modern lives. But I don't anymore, thanks to Minjay.