Before there was a book series, there was our Great Pyrenees, Bear.

He came into my life at a time when I was very sick, and I wasn’t sure how things would turn out. Bear was just there, in the quiet hours, lying beside me while I tried to get better. I didn’t have to say anything. He didn’t either. He just was. And sometimes that’s the most powerful thing in the world—to know you’re not alone. The phrase I often use in the It’s a Wonderful Dog series, “Lean In and Listen,” came straight from those moments. Because with Bear, you didn’t need words. You only needed to listen with your heart.

We’d never had a Great Pyrenees before. Bear was our first, and he opened the door for two more after him. We didn’t know what to expect—only that he grew into something much bigger than we imagined. Physically, of course—Great Pyrenees are strong enough to face down predators without flinching. But also gentle. Gentle in ways that surprised me.

Bear guarded us in ways I couldn’t always see at the time. Sometimes it was his protective stance against coyotes. Other times, it was the way he seemed to sense things about people—things we might not understand until much later. He watched over our land, steady and serious, but then would turn around and carry a baby bunny to us with the softest mouth, as if to say, this one needs you. He was strong and tender all at once.

Over time, Bear became more than our dog—he became a kind of legend. Once, while we were traveling in another state, someone started telling us a story about a Great Pyrenees they’d heard of in western Kansas. A dog so loyal that the family’s chickens and cats were safe from coyotes. They spoke of him with awe, like he belonged in a tale passed down around campfires.

And then came the twist: they were talking about our Bear. Nearly a decade after he’d crossed the Rainbow Bridge, his story was still making its way from one family to another. (Their relatives had once been our neighbors.) What are the chances? To hear your dog’s life retold to you as if he were folklore—it stopped me in my tracks.

And maybe that’s what one fantastic dog does. They stay with you long after they’ve gone, and they ripple out into other people’s lives too.

When I look back at old photos of Bear, I don’t just see a dog. I see the beginning of everything. I see the reason I ever started writing these stories. Without Bear, there would be no series, no Merivelle, no Bear Bailey helping readers find hope and healing in the pages of a book.

Bear gave me more than I can ever repay. He comforted me when I needed it most. He gave me strength when I didn’t know I had any. And he gave me a story worth telling—a reminder that sometimes the quietest moments are the ones that change everything.

So here’s to Bear. And here’s to all our wonderful dogs who save us, one season at a time.

💛 I’d love to hear about yours—what’s one memory of your dog that still makes you smile, even years later?