This morning our dog, Copper, was especially rambunctious. We don’t know what got into him exactly, but he came inside after his morning romp and skittered all over the living room and kitchen. He chased his tail. He ran loops in our house. He looked for all the world like a canine comedian, milking us for every laugh he could.

I let him back into the yard where he ran big loops with a red ball in his mouth. More laughs. It’s impossible to watch that little guy rocket across a space, his long, low body (one of our friends says he seems to be put together out of spare, mismatched dog parts) blurred by motion. He’s the life force itself. The very essence of joy.

When he’s done he runs up to us with a funny grin on his face, as if to say, aren’t you proud of me.

And at that moment I forget about the loud barking, the accidents on the carpet, the ruined back door, the times he’s run away and left us with our heart in our throats. I reach down and pat the little guy.

“Good boy,” I say. “Good boy, Copper.”