There are days when life delivers its deep truths in sweeping metaphors, sunsets, and perfectly timed inspirational quotes.

And then there are days like today when the deepest truths come straight from the Dog Couch. You know, that fur-covered, snack-stained kingdom ruled by my three wildly different but equally ridiculous dogs.

Let me set the scene.

There’s the little one, all 11 pounds of unfiltered energy and dramatic side-eyes. His superpower? Snatching flies right out of the air. No joke. He’s got ninja reflexes that would make a frog jealous. He stalks, pounces, catches… and then, in a moment of pure betrayal, spits it out. Every single time. The crunch? Too real. The flavor? Not it. It’s like he catches them just to prove he can. Then he looks at me like, “Ugh, gross. Why didn’t you stop me?”

The middle one (my broody curmudgeon with hidden talents) doesn’t bother with flies. No, he hunts field mice. And he’s disturbingly good at it. He sneaks, he calculates, he pounces. He catches. And then… yup, spits it out too. Honestly, I don’t want to know what that’s about. It’s all very “Wild Kingdom meets mild trauma.” I both admire and recoil.

And then there’s the big guy. The food opportunist. The ultimate Crumb Snatcher. You drop a slice of pizza, a single Goldfish cracker, even a faint whiff of cheese near a countertop edge and boom. It’s gone. He’s not spitting anything out. Not ever. His talent is pure, practiced opportunism, and he walks in his truth proudly. He’s not here to play. He’s here to clean up after your clumsy human hands, one mouthful at a time.

So, what’s the life lesson here?

I’ll be honest. I don’t fully know. But somewhere in all this spitting and snatching, there’s a message about purpose, readiness, and individuality. Each dog has their weird little niche. Their instinctual response. Their reflexive readiness to do the thing they do best, even if it doesn’t make sense to anyone else (or ends in a sad fly on the floor).

Some of us are fly catchers with second thoughts. Some are mouse wranglers who prefer the chase to the prize. And, some are crumb collectors who know that a moment’s hesitation means a missed opportunity. They don’t try to be each other. They don’t apologize for their instincts. They just do what they do: flawed, messy, a little gross, and move on.

From the fur-coated couch, I’m reminded: There’s power in knowing your reflexes. There’s beauty in acting fast. And there’s freedom in realizing you can spit out what doesn’t serve you.

(Also: I need to vacuum more. And maybe invest in fly screens.)