“She’s a Godnose Terrier” is my standard answer, truthful because in fact no one knows, and a slightly ironic dig at people who take the trouble to acquire particular breeds and then act particular about it.

A few minutes later, as I was driving home with my murderous little terrier scanning the road ahead for prey, I got thinking about the question. Who cares what kind of dog she is? Isn’t that sort of like asking someone of a clearly different ethnicity where they came from? That’s illegal on some questionnaires, and likely in poor taste in civil conversation. Our dogs are as close as family – are family, in many cases – and their only qualification ought to be what they do and how they behave.

As I write this, the afternoon sky is darkening into evening and the hour of our pre-prandials is approaching. The sky is glooming outside the window off my right shoulder, and my constant companion is snoozing on the easy chair just behind me. The disruption to her diurnal routine occasioned by the change to standard time seems finally to have been absorbed, and she can once again nail five o’clock, when we share a glass of seltzer and orange juice (me), a bit of kielbasa, another of cheese, and a couple of Wheat Thins. That tides us over till suppertime at six.

But “nailing” five o’clock doesn’t mean that she comes to life at the stroke of the hour. Oh, no! It means that about fifteen minutes before the hour she’ll stir herself, shake her tags loudly, jump up onto the fleece pad provided for her on my desk, and stand quietly, but portentously on the desk pad with her muzzle interposed between my face and the computer screen. Depending upon my mood, I’ll choose to suffer her importunity till exactly five or comply in exasperation. Either way, like the crowing rooster who thinks he makes the sun come up, she’s quite sure that she’s roused me to action. Just to make sure I don’t forget what I’m up to, she keeps up a weird bumping with her ball against the back of my left ankle till I’ve finished.

She goes outside about half a dozen times a day, announcing her presence with vigorous barking; so it’s never before six in the morning or ten at night. If it’s light out, I love to watch her patrol her perimeter, which with the snow has shrunk pretty much to the plowed parts of the yard. She does a little self-important trot that’s just fun to watch. And her nose dictates most of where she goes.

The other day she was trotting past a nest of tangled dead grass when she suddenly halted, sniffing. Aha! Prey! Somewhere in that mess of grass was a mouse or vole, most attractively something smaller than she, and hiding. I watched her snuffing and scratching, nose down and tail wagging excitedly in the air. Then she looked up, saw me watching through the storm door, and, embarrassed, trotted back to be let in. She was flushed and excited and seemed very pleased with herself to have kept me safe.

With winter here, we get out less than in other months, and spend hours sometimes side by side or with her in my lap. I read, she snoozes. I don’t think she ever sleeps. Just the tiny click of my cell phone being turned off rouses her to instant action. If nothing’s afoot, she jumps up to claim the warm spot where I’ve been sitting.

It’s a rare moment – perhaps about sixteen years – that I share with her. If she reaches sixteen, and I’m still alive, I’ll be ninety-seven. She’s aging about six times as fast as I, a somber thought. But in these few years we’ve got, she’s doing what all dogs do: devoting herself to accommodating to my schedule, activity, and abilities. For my part, knowing what she loves best, I try to find opportunities to help her do them. A run through the woods (unhealthy for me with ice and snow on the ground) or an untrammeled gallop across a broad beach dashing at flocks of wading gulls seems to be as close as she can get to perfection. Having her close by, as she is just now, snoozing by my elbow and within easy reach – apparently because she wants to be – is a reminder to try to be the person she seems to think I am.